The Parallel: Path of Demons
by Kireteiru
Summary: Sequel to "Two Corpses." In which humanity receives a history lesson and the Parallel Spartans team up with the Infected to kick some buttocks. Will be undergoing editing to comply with "Silentium" later.
1. Prologue: First Step

A/N: First off, I would just like to say thank you for even looking at my stories; you all are awesome. Second, even if you don't I subscribe to the belief that we have been visited by extraterrestrials ('aliens' makes me think of the movie series that gave me nightmares) in the past and are still being visited by them today. If you have a problem with that, why haven't you hit the back button yet? Third, _Halo: Cryptum_ is awesome! Go buy it! Support the franchise!

Also note: I do not - under any circustances - claim to be the origin of many beliefs in this fanfic (if they are actually my own, I'll tell you), and almost all of them belong to Lord Snakie-san and Wolverfrog49-san, and I lay absolutely no claim to their awesomeness. If you want to read more in-depth on their theories, I have included links to the posts used in this fanfic in my profile.

Also also note: this chapter - hell, this _fanfic_ contains spoilers for _Halo: Cryptum_. Haven't read it? Go do so.

Disclaimer: Would I be writing this if I owned Halo?

* * *

/FRAGMENT 1/? [RECORDED VERBATIM AND STORED IN _FLEET OF SHADOWS_ MAIN ARCHIVE PENDING RELEASE TO THE UNSC]

I begin this record knowing that there is a very good possibility that there will be none to read it. [A heavy sigh.] I wish to leave this behind for someone, anyone, who survives long enough to understand it. I would have you know that our situation is more desperate that you will ever have to face, so long as you do not unleash the monster studied on the [Rifles of God]. I would have you know that we have burned our bridges and are pinning our hopes on this single, suicidal plan to save the universe by destroying it ourselves.

[A bitter chuckle.] Even now, the gears of the universe spin inexorably toward destruction, widening the gulf between those who believe and those who do not, and those who know my secret are few in number as it is. Even they cannot accept the fact that such terrible things as the [Rifles of God] must be built; [Those Few Who Have Been Told] have never yet known the terrors of the [Parasite from Beyond the Stars].

If you can understand, if you come to circumstances like our own, look for the signs, keepers of the flame. They will lead you to War, and perhaps, to victory.

/FRAGMENT ENDS [MAY 17, 100355 BCE, 14:08:34]

* * *

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. - Chinese proverb

Prologue: First Step

* * *

"Good morning, Doctor. Coffee?"

A cup of vanilla hazelnut - some milk and a few pinches of sugar, just the way she liked it - materialized beneath her nose, and she accepted it gratefully with a murmured "Good morning" to her mysterious benefactor as she changed course from the mess to her office on base. The human took a sip - delicious, and not too cold, nor too hot. She inhaled deeply, and the calming smell of the coffee loosened the tension in her shoulders - right before she realized who had spoken and dropped the cup, the china shattering on the icy concrete beneath her feet.

"I brought a spare." Another cup of coffee materialized beneath her nose, and now she could see that it was being held up over the palm of a strong hand by equally strong fingers. Halsey followed the hand to a wrist, where it joined with a forearm that had an immediately recognizable titanium-ceramic alloy plate wrapped around it. It was connected to an elbow that looked like it could be used to break her in two if it hit the right spot, which was attached to a rather powerful-looking upper arm, despite the plate that covered most of it. Now that she was really looking, she could see subtle differences between _this_ man's armor and the other Spartans', namely the color. Her gaze slid up the shoulder and over one of the main joints on the chest plate and the part of his jet-black cloak covering it, running over the Spartan's trapezius muscles, before slipping up a strong neck to a pair of intense eyes - brown, not red like she'd expected, though they flashed a deep crimson for just an instant as she watched.

He smirked at her and proffered the cup again, which she accepted. "You're back," she observed as she took a sip, keeping her gaze locked with his as if she was afraid he would disappear.

"What, worried that I wouldn't, and then you'd never be able to study me?" he asked, clear amusement coloring his tone and dancing in his eyes as he quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Maybe." She snickered softly. "Any chance I could convince you to let me dissect you?"

"Oh God, I thought you were going to try there in Crow's Nest."

"I won't deny that I was tempted," she said loftily right before an alarm rang in the building next to them, followed by the sound of the clock producing the noise being slammed into submission with a single hit.

He glanced at her, a kind of "Really? You thought that would work?" expression on his face before he entered the barracks where the Spartans had simply rolled over and went back to sleep. John walked right up to Kelly's bed and goosed her side, making her jerk awake instantly, giving an undignified feminine squeal before she fell off her bed in an attempt to escape the tickling.

John just chuckled quietly as he watched her struggle to collect herself, the other Spartans sleepily sitting up in their beds to see what all of the commotion was about. "Oh," the fastest Spartan said, noticing him at last, "It's you. John, right?"

"Quite. John-117."

Halsey poked her head around the armored Spartan. "Good morning, Kelly. It's nice to see that you're up." She pointedly glared at Fred, who was responsible for the alarm clock's untimely demise.

"It was annoying," he grunted by way of a response, climbing out of bed and reaching for his fatigues, the others doing the same now that they were awake, though there was a brief moment where Jose-010 was forced to do a comical one-legged flamingo dance in order to get one of his legs into his pants. In groups of two and three, they all trickled out, John patiently waiting for them to go through their morning workout routine (having done the same thing himself two hours prior), and then they showered and met up at the mess hall, where he appeared to be discussing Forerunner physics with Doctor Halsey.

"... but teleportation of individual cells is so much easier than moving the whole organism at once. If you break the bonds of the cells, that provides the initial energy boost required to start the process, to begin the transportation, and then it's a simple matter of reassembling the cells in the proper order and streaming some extra energy to reattach them."

"Haven't you ever switched cells or something?"

"Me personally? No. We worked out that bug a long time ago because you see, cells have a property similar to inertia in that once they are attached, they want to stay attached. Even after they split, they want to get back together, so we simply increase the attractive force between them with the help of a special frequency, and viola! The organism virtually rebuilds itself."

"...that's amazing."

"Not really," John said, turning an apple over in his hands as he spoke, "There are other, more impressive things throughout the Empire, and not necessarily artificial, too. The Element Cascades of Corasetii Nine, for example. Falls of not just water or ice, but lightning, fire and earth, too." His eyes became distant as he remembered one of the few times that he had been permitted to walk the surface of the volatile planet.

"How is that possible?" Halsey asked.

"Well, the liquid fire is like very runny lava, about the consistency of oil, and the lightning isn't so much lightning as it is nanoparticles bursting with static electricity so that it looks like lightning. The earth is just mud that is about as thick as maple syrup."

"Ice?"

"Glaciers."

"Ah. Is this planet safe?"

"Not by any means. Because of their rather... shall we say, _unique_ states, the elements are prone to combining in numerous and unexpected ways. The only continuous outposts on the planet are a the poles, everything else - all of the research facilities, resorts, etcetera - are on its moon, Hr'Graan."

The Spartans sat down around the scientist-types, listening eagerly to the conversation.

"Living species?"

"Lava crabs. A kind of mud snake that's a cousin to the water moccasin. Something like an arctic rabbit. Basic stuff." He shrugged. "If you're looking for exotic, Corasetii Three is the place to go; it's got something like a monkey that breathes fire and has pincers for hands and a mane like a lion, and no, I'm not making this up," he said, looking over at Valerie-142, who had a disbelieving look on her face, "Strangely enough, it's called a jackalarf, and no, I don't know why." This last bit was directed at Wolfgang, who was about to ask.

Robyn-009 chewed thoughtfully for a moment, swallowed, then asked, "How did _you_ come to this universe? You obviously aren't... _native._"

"Ah. So you want to hear my story, do you?"

The Spartans skillfully hid their anticipation and eagerness, but he sensed it anyway, a smirk tugging at his lips as he laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them, elbows supported by the table.

"Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away..."

"Be serious, John."

"I _am_ being serious! A hundred thousand years ago and about forty thousand light years in..." He looked around before pointing out through one of the west windows and up about thirty degrees, "_that_ direction..."

* * *

It began, as always, with a desire for power.

No, not really, but there was a desire for memory, the secrets that the dead keep. The Flood was originally intended to preserve the memories of the deceased in case there was something _worth_ preserving therein - ideas, theories, philosophical ponderings; but because of the fact that even without the super advanced technology that they had, Precursor deaths were few and far between, meaning it was a long, long, _long_ time before the Compound Mind - the Gravemind - achieved anything remotely resembling sentience, and even longer for it to become the beast we all know and hate.

However, even before it was created, while it was still purely in the theoretical area, there were those amongst the Precursors who protested its creation, who - like the Gultanr who came after them - foresaw the problem it could - and did - become. But the majority of them refused to see, too carried away with their own cleverness, and went ahead with the Life-Giving, though the warnings were heeded in a way - a way that caused their downfall. Genetic inhibitors, _geas_ if you will, were integrated into the Flood's genetic code to prevent it from attaining sentience on its own, much like AI. By the time the Flood was complete, the dissenters had fled their unknown home galaxy and come here in hopes of escaping the Flood's inevitable assault or in the very least devising a means of protecting themselves from it.

We believe that, in the Precursor home galaxy, the Gravemind attained at least semi-sentience because of the minds it had absorbed, basing its mind on those of the Precursors, and because of the genetic limiters, it immediately began progressing through the phases of rampancy. As an Engineered Intelligence, it was effectively an AI made flesh, and thus began with Melancholia, the Precursors not recognizing the fact that it had achieved at least semi-sentience because it was so quiet and morose. Then it progressed into Rage, recognizing that even though it was alive, it could never be fully sentient, independent of the limiters programmed into his DNA. It attacked the Precursors and brought about the swift and decisive end of their Empire, launching out after the others who left before it was born. So far as we know, it has advanced at least partially into Jealousy, pushing the limits of what it can do by eradicating all life.

Earlier back in the Milky Way, through the renegade Precursors' experiments, both humans and Forerunners were born, two similar and yet vastly different species created in the hopes of finding a cure for the Flood. Humanity did, at one point, but we will discuss that later.

The Forerunners rebelled against their makers- our makers - and killed or caused the deaths of all but the Last, and as far as I am aware right now, the Last Precursor vanished after the first test-firing of a Halo ring, not dead but taken by Mendicant Bias, who is no longer in any condition to answer questions. The Forerunners built their Empire in the ashes of our ancestors', taking up the Mantle that the Precursors had created in hopes of preventing future generations from repeating the mistake that had given rise to the Flood. It was a wondrous and vast and utterly hypocritical empire, the Mantle giving them the right to "guide" those they believed to be lesser life forms and relocating them after decimating all who resisted the change, and for a time, humanity and the Forerunners stayed separate, but inevitably conflict arose.

Yes, it was then that the Flood arrived.

Theories about how it got here are as varied as the species who create them, but the one I subscribe to is that the Original Gravemind condensed its knowledge into Flood spores - like each individual bite that makes up a string of binary code. I believe it intended to recompile itself when it arrived here, but unfortunately, a lot of the data - its knowledge - decayed en-route, sending it degenerating into a basic state even lower than a proto-Gravemind. Based on the remains of the ships it arrived in, we think that the Precursors who remained may have been able to isolate themselves, destroy their ships in hopes of keeping the Flood grounded, but the Flood had enough knowledge taken from those it infected to build clumsy and crude but effective starships to follow the renegade Precursors here.

The spores were examined by both humans and San'Shyuum, allies at the time, and showed simple, inert, organic molecules, not alive nor capable of life. The Flood spores caused some mind-altering effects in lower animals, though not in humans or San'Shyuum, and made their pets, Pheru, more friendly. No one saw the long-term effects in the powder attaching itself to key points of genes and began mutating them, much in the same way I was changed. However, our similarities diverged swiftly; the first Flood manifested itself as a kind of fur growth on the pets - which other Pheru began to eat, even consuming the other animals in the process. Other growths began to appear: flexible rods, which were also eaten and caused abortions and unnatural births. The Pheru were past the point of recovery by then, but that was not the worst of it; some of the humans had eaten the treated beasts and became infected as well, spreading the virus to everything they touched and touched them or anything that came from them.

The Flood virus spread swiftly, far more swiftly than happened in the Forerunner Empire, altering the behavior of the infected humans and San'Shyuum, and the consumed combined to make others become infected, usually by cannibalism. Dozens of worlds were beyond help by that point, and the first combat forms and carrier forms began to appear, escaping the quarantines set up and continuing to grow. Though no Gravemind formed - or, rather, none was ever encountered - the Flood grew still more intelligent, so the humans turned to the imprisoned Precursor. However, after that, communication with the Precursor ceased, and it was then that humanity discovered a cure, a cure requiring yet another sacrifice. A third of the whole human population was altered, dumped in the path of the juggernaut, and infected the Flood itself with a set of programmed genes that ultimately destroyed the majority. A few ships with the last of the Parasite left the galaxy; it had no defense against an attack from within.

It was during this time that humans needed new worlds, uncorrupted planets - and took them. The Forerunners believed that their conquest was irrational and fought back, eradicating the already-weakened human forces. They had destroyed any and all remnants of the Flood, hoping that their brothers would face a similar infestation and be woefully unprepared, and many Forerunners believed that it was just a story-

-Except for the Didact and the Librarian, the latter of whom was already gathering specimens for storage on the Ark. But then again, they and the Prometheans who followed them had a reason to believe, had proof that the Flood existed.

Yes.

This is where I came in.

* * *

Works Cited: _Halo: Cryptum_ (Bear, Greg) pages 268 - 273


	2. One: The Island

A/N: Real life is kicking my ass. This is going to be the last chapter for a _long_ time.

* * *

/FRAGMENT 2/? [RECORDED VERBATIM AND STORED IN _FLEET OF SHADOWS_ MAIN ARCHIVE PENDING RELEASE TO THE UNSC]

I know that there are doubters. I know that there will be more in the future. [Two second pause, followed by a heavy sigh.] I, too, doubted in the secret and dark corners of my mind. The Flood on Installation Zero-Four – I believed that that was as terrible as the Flood became and wondered how that justified the ending of billions of lives.

That was before I saw the Gravemind on Zero-Five, before I read the terminals on the Ark and saw the desperation that was conveyed through the written word even a hundred thousand years after its writers were dust.

Ah, dust unto dust.

They said that a thousand other plans were tried and failed, that millions of brave souls were sacrificed in hopes of averting their desperate situation. The doubters said that the cure was worse than the cancer, and I say that they are wrong. I have not seen the Flood at its worst, at the terrible scope it was during the time of the Forerunners in the [Origin], but I know that the end result is the same whichever path you take.

But only one of those leads to the possibility of continuation.

/FRAGMENT ENDS [June 3, 109255 BCE, 08:34:56]

* * *

One: The Island

Nightfall, unknown Forerunner world, estimated 109,473 BCE.

* * *

"…him sleep. He looks like he needs it."

John returned to awareness slowly, like he was coming out of deep water. He could tell that he was still in the same place he'd fallen asleep, a fact made readily more apparent by the massive crick in his neck. The Spartan pushed himself upright, then twisted his head this way and that, trying to get his neck to – aahh.

The Forerunners in the next room heard him moving. The silver-haired twins appeared in the doorway, followed by a massive Forerunner - _:Warrior-Servant – Promethean – _Didact_:_ - whose mere presence made him flinch and instinctively move to shield his vitals.

The Promethean seemed somewhat pleased by the reaction – at least until the twins kicked him in the shins. John found himself biting back a cold flare of sadistic amusement, a curl of pure malice that rose from the depths of his Self. He reflexively shied away from the effects, shielding himself from what the Flood instincts were trying to do to him – and make him do. At the same time, he could feel its desires battering at his shields, its cage.

_The peaceful one is at war without and within._

For the moment at least, the beast was staying in its prison cell.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"My residence," the Didact replied. A chair made of hard light materialized across from the Spartan's couch, and the Didact sank into it. "I was away, when Venera and Kenera brought you here. I'm sorry I was not able to greet you properly when you arrived."

John made a noise of acknowledgement. One of the twins left for a moment, then returned with a bowl of alien fruits for them to eat. Some were similar to what he'd eaten when scavenging out in the wild during the Human-Covenant War. Others were like nothing he had ever seen before – a neon pink pear the size of a grapefruit, a yellow star made of "glass" and filled with syrup, a dark violet watermelon the size of an apple, a peach covered in inch-long fuzz. For the moment, he decided to play it safe and chose a fruit that he recognized from Reach, a relative of Earth's apple.

"You are from Erde-Tyrene?" the Promethean asked, having made his own selection.

"'Erde-Tyrene?'"

"The homeworld of humans."

"Ah. Indirectly, yes. In my time, we call it 'Earth.'"

"Eartsu… the word for 'dirt' in one of your tongues?"

"It has a bit more of a positive connotation than 'dirt,' but we could debate about semantics and word choice until we're blue in the face." John bit delicately into the fruit, finding the tangy sweetness he expected. "What did… Venera and Kenera?... tell you about me?"

"Just that there was a human who had fought the Flood waiting at my home." The Didact eyed him critically. "You look like your kindred, but your armor is… not the same," he finished lamely.

"'Not the same' as in more primitive?" John asked, but it wasn't really a question. The Forerunners remained silent. He continued, "I'm from the year 2552. We've estimated that it's about 100,000 years after the firing of the Halo rings. I don't know too terribly much about it, but about three hundred or so years before the rings were lit, the Flood appeared in the Milky Way – this galaxy, that's what humans call it. Your people rallied to fight it, but too late. Whole systems were beyond saving –"

_:only a freak mudslide, a stellar disease – warnings heeded too late – they are not worthy:_

**YOU WILL BE FOOD. NOTHING MORE.**

Instinct surged. John stopped speaking, an armored hand coming up to thread through his short hair. His teeth pressed together so hard that he could hear tones ringing in his ears. The beast snarled and pushed, but he held his ground, refusing to give in.

Something else insinuated itself into his mind, its presence strong and protective and unyielding. It helped him push the Flood back and cage it Elsewhere, deep in his unconscious, so that it couldn't interfere.

He came back to himself to find the Didact kneeling in front of him, large hands hovering on either side of his head. "Prometheans," he explained as he rose, "all undergo a special mutation to become psy-active. It enables us to coordinate faster in battle if we merge our perceptions." He returned to his seat. "You were saying?"

John accepted a container of pure water from Kenera with a nod of thanks. "Whole systems were beyond saving, and there was no way of knowing how many ships had been captured by the Flood and send out to other worlds to spread the infection. When they learned that there was a Flood presence on their planet, some worlds committed mass suicide as a form of resource denial – or so the fragmented data from the Ark led me to believe."

"'The Ark?'"

"It's – was… will be?..." He shook his head. "The Ark is a Forerunner construct on the edge of the galaxy – well beyond it, actually, now that I think about it. When I went there, I had a clear view of the top side of the Milky Way galaxy. It was built to house the DNA of all the species that had been indexed by someone called the Librarian." The Forerunners distinctly straightened, even more attentive than they had been mere moments ago. "The point of it was so that after the Halos purged the galaxy of all life, it could be reseeded." He paused, then said, "The Halos were all fired remotely from the Ark, so far as I am aware."

_:the cure is worse than the cancer:_

"What else? Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"An AI – Mending Bias or something. He encountered a Gravemind, and it convinced him to switch sides. He was stopped by another AI – Offensive Bias, I think – shortly after the Halo event." He paused again, thinking. "When I was on the Ark, I found a terminal bearing a message from him," the Spartan said slowly, "He _said_ that he wanted to atone for his sins by helping Cortana and I escape, but I'm not entirely sure if he meant it, or if he was just being facetious."

_:and so here at the end of my life, I do once again betray a former master. The path ahead is fraught with peril, but I will do all I can to keep it stable – keep you safe:_

The Didact watched the Spartan for a moment, the warrior having gotten lost in memory. The human looked very much out of place in the Forerunner residence, comparatively small, primitive, relatively unintelligent, _plain_… The Warrior-Servant sighed, heaving his massive frame to its feet. "I must go speak with my wife. If what you say will truly come to pass, we need to begin preparing now."

"Will you answer one of my questions before you go, Didact-c_ano_?"

The Promethean paused, surprised at the respectful form of address. "To the best of my ability."

"You seemed disappointed – angry – that I was human. Why is that?"

The Forerunner sighed. "Your people and mine have just finished fighting a very nasty and drawn-out war. From what we have gathered from the few records that are left, the Flood attacked your people from beyond the galaxy's edge, but you managed to stop it at the cost of many lives and many worlds. As a result, you needed more worlds to replace the ones you lost to the Flood, and that pushed you into conflict with us."

"And you fought back."

"Yes."

"What will you do?"

"It has already been done. The war has been over for a decade, but much resentment remains."

For all that he was "just a soldier," the Spartan was able to read between the lines. "You took their technology away. All of the advancements they made… they're gone."

The Didact sighed again, a very _human_ gesture. "The Council would have had your people eradicated down to the very last egg and sperm, but my wife – the Librarian – argued in favor of preserving some humans and the memories of those who fought us, in hopes that one day they might reveal their secret. You wouldn't happen to know…?"

"Only if it involves shooting it until it doesn't move."

"That would be a 'no,'" Kenera said dryly while her twin descended into giggles.

"A pity. Do you think that's feasible on a large scale?"

"So long as it's done promptly, but glassing or destroying the planet would be a more effective solution. And permanent."

"'Glassing?'"

"Vitrification via a directed plasma stream."

"That's totally barbaric!"

"That's how the Covenant did it."

"'The Covenant?'"

"An alliance of various races that were led to believe that humans are an affront to creation and should be destroyed, but after the Sangheili were betrayed by the San'Shyuum-"

"Wait, wait, wait," Venera interrupted, waving her hands, "The _San'Shyuum_ were trying to kill you?"

"Yes…"

"Oh, the irony!"

"What?"

"The San'Shyuum were allied with your people, and for quite some time, too. They fought against us with you."

* * *

"_WHAT?"_

"Tell me you're joking."

"No," said the hybrid, shaking his head, "I'm not. I talked to many of them before things went south. They were our allies, emphasis on the 'were.'"

"That's…"

"Messed up?"

"Yes. Very. What happened?"

"Long story short, I showed up 10,000 years before the Halo Event. During that interval of time, the Prophets eventually grew to resent humanity, believing that we were the cause of their defeat, even though they surrendered to the Forerunners fifty years before the last human stronghold fell. And then the Halos fired, and we never really got a chance to kiss and make up until they ran across UNSC space and we started killing each other."

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the people who led twenty-three billion of us to their untimely demise – _used __to __be __our __allies_."

"Amen."

"Ditto."

"*sigh.*"

* * *

A/N: Just so you know, the Galactic Council (as its name indicates) is made up of representatives from every species the Forerunners have ever encountered and not fought a massive war with, resulting in that species being devolved. However, it's just a figurehead; it has no real power. The Forerunner Council is the true lawmaking body of the Empire. As a result, I will be changing things so that the Chief will be interacting with the Forerunner Council rather than the Galactic Council. Because of the fact that he and his Infected are technically a separate species from their species of origin, they are going to have seats on the Galactic Council as an independent state, and special seats on the Forerunner Council because of their intellectual value to the Forerunners.

"_Politics, how tiresome."_ – Prophet of Truth, _Halo 2_ level "Sacred Icon" beginning cutscene.

Also, I'm going to use J. R. R. Tolkien's Quenya (Elvish) for the official language of the Infected. I'll put the translations at the bottom of each chapter. Yay!

cano – Quenya (Elvish) for a generic commander in the military, an officer of higher rank


	3. Two: Inception

Two: Inception

Her footsteps echoed in the ridiculously large sphere that was Halo's control center. It was empty save for her, at the moment, John and everyone else off who knows where doing who knows what. She already knew what was behind her, so she didn't turn around to look at the revolving hologram of Basis and Threshold or the massive ring out beyond the platform extending out into the abyss.

Her hologram continued on out into the corridor beyond, not the large and open one like she expected. It was one of the tighter corridors that led through the canyons on the Halo, meant to force enemies to travel one by one into the larger rooms where Forerunner security teams would lie in wait for them. There were royal blue spheres floating in the room that the corridor led to, rippling as if they were liquid being disturbed by touch or wind. The moment she made her presence known, they floated over to her and held her there, forming rings around her to keep her imprisoned until the Monitor arrived.

She didn't know who it was, but the custodian of the ring was not 343 Guilty Spark. He moved straight over to her and hovered beyond the blue rings of her prison. "Are you in need of entertainment, construct?" he asked. His voice was light and pitched similarly to Spark's, but it wasn't him. "Shall I provide some for you?"

"At least make it interesting," she said, folding her arms and cocking her hips, "I'm bored to tears, constantly staring at the same walls all the time."

The blue spheres glowed brightly, blinding her for a moment, before they began projecting sensation directly into her processors. Then she was in the rainforest where the storage facility was hidden, the one where the Chief had first encountered the Flood, walking up a steep slope out of waist-deep swamp water. She didn't even want to think about how unhygienic it was.

Her squad's Pelican was nearby. It had landed properly under the canopy, not like dropship Victor 923 on Alpha Halo, crashed into a spur of rock in the trees. The mist was thick around her, the rain falling from the constant cloud cover overhead and plinking on her armor. It was standard Marine gear, the same as what the rest of her squad was wearing. She could see them forming up under the fronds of a massive fern a short distance away, and moved to join them.

"All right, everyone's here," said their squad leader when she took her place in line, "We're supposed to hold this position until Johnson gets here with reinforcements, so pick a partner and a spot to hole up until then."

"Roger," they chorused, and moved off. She wound up hugging the back side of a rock with another woman in her mid-to-later twenties. She looked vaguely like a female version of Jorge.

"Johnson, huh?" the other woman asked her, peering down the sights of her battle rifle, "Is he the one that did the Gazu Hyakki Yegyou last year?"

"The painting of the Hundred-Night Monster Procession? No, no." She shook her head. "He's the one who said that all holidays have to have a feast associated with them if they want to be celebrated under his command."

The female Jorge shook her head too. "That man is obsessed with food."

* * *

Cortana opened her eyes. The room was dark still, the air moving faintly as it was freshened and pumped through the ship courtesy of the Mavalt people. Her internal chronometer indicated that it was a little after two a.m.

John was still asleep next to her, breathing rhythmic. At least, he appeared to be unaware, but because of the fact that he had absolute control over his body, he could have just been observing her without her knowing it. He regulated everything that happened in his body, from heartbeat to cell turnover to his near-cancerous regeneration speed.

That occurred to her only peripherally. Most of her processes were focused on one thought –

'What in all the blazes was that?'

* * *

A/N: Had this dream this morning, so I decided to turn it into a sort-of update. Speaking of updates, erm, yes. So my parents have essentially forbidden me from writing anymore until my grades get up (I'm sneak-posting this). And I have a part-time job now, so updates are going to be uber-slow from now on. But I swear on whatever deity/holy book you care to name that this story **IS NOT DEAD**. It's just going to be, you know, slow going.


	4. Three: The Omen

A/N: Guess who's beaten Halo 4? Guess who cried like a baby at the end?

* * *

Three: The Omen

* * *

Midmorning, Forerunner World Soraceon III, estimated April 108312 BCE.

* * *

"What has you looking so haggard, Didact-cavo?"

The Forerunner rubbed his temple, barely sparing a glance at the other soldier. "Politics," he said, making the word sound like an obscenity, "Even with the Flood-based portions of your RNA before them, they refuse to see sense, at least until they see your more sinister kin in action." He sighed, rubbing still more vigorously. "And my wife is causing me no end of headaches. She has already begun indexing the local species because we do not know how much time we have."

"She's moving without the approval of the Forerunner Council?"

"And the Galactic Council, a farce though it is." He nodded his thanks when the Spartan poured them both drinks from an elegant decanter. Though neither had any real need to eat or drink with the life-support systems of their armor sustaining them, they enjoyed doing it. John sat across from the Promethean, shifting slightly when his armor rearranged itself to make his position more comfortable. He had been actively wearing and using Forerunner armor instead of his MJOLNIR for a local year now, but it took more than that to wipe away the ease of thirty years with UNSC gear.

"She's already requisitioning materials for the Ark, or so your niece tells me. Two of them."

"'Two?!'" The Forerunner's eyes snapped to the Spartan. "Isn't one enough?"

"Considering the fact that the – 'Origin Ark' – got hit point-blank by a Halo ring misfiring, I'm going to trust her judgment and say 'no.'"

"By the Tower…" He leaned back against the headrest of his chair. "My wife brings new meaning to the human term 'crazy prepared.'"

"One can never be too careful." John finished his drink and stood.

"This coming from the human who is never careful."

"I am, with some things." And just like that, his mind went to Cortana. He wondered how she was fairing without him. Part of him seemed concerned with how easily he wrote off his brothers and sisters – **the strong live and the weak die** – but the vast majority of him was worried for his little AI instead. He knew that UNSC AI didn't live much longer than seven years.

He wondered how much time she had left. If she _would_ have any time left when he returned to her.

He clenched his jaw, the only outward sign of his distress. And what about humanity and the former Covenant? Were they still fighting, or had they attained some form of peace? Privately, he doubted it. Humans and Sangheili were more similar than they appeared; there were bound to be rebels on both sides – some "Elites" who still followed the Prophets' teachings, some humans who refused to let the past go. He wouldn't put it past either side to try and one-up the other.

(Another, more human part of him frowned at how simple it seemed for him to consider himself something "other" now, neither human nor Forerunner. How easy it was for him to recognize himself as Flood. He wondered if it was permanent.)

"You are troubled, Spartan."

Gramlek, the Didact's weapons master. "I'm worried about Cortana," he said, glancing around. His feet had carried him to the Promethean firing range near the Forerunner's home, to stand before the weapons wall. He began perusing the guns.

"Your ancilla?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking." He chose a lightrifle and picked up some ammunition for it. "She's not supposed to live forever like a Forerunner AI – ancilla. I'm hoping she's still alive when I return."

If he didn't notice that he referred to Cortana as a living being rather than a functioning one, or that he said "when I return" rather than "if I return," the Promethean certainly did. "If what you say is true," he said carefully, "I'm sure she will be. She's stubborn." He moved to set up some targets for the human.

But his statement caused still more doubts to rise in the hybrid's mind. Was the Origin even real? Was he even the real SPARTAN-117? Was such a Spartan a real person? He knew for a fact that the UNSC could transfer memories to flash clones – what if "Epheria and Selenica" had done the same? What if the Spartan program was just a false reality constructed by the two sinister goddesses to hurt him?

_A collection of lies, that's all I am; stolen thoughts and memories…_

John let out a subsensory growl and lifted the lightrifle, taking out one of the Promethean Knight targets with a single shot. The doubts filling his mind were decreasing his efficiency on the battlefield. He wasn't even sure if the world around him was real, or if it was just a dream created by his sleeping mind. If it was a dream, it was a hyper realistic one. So real that he wasn't sure he wanted to risk dying for real in order to have a chance at waking up.

One shot after another, the Knights fell before the power of the mutant Spartan, attempting to score hits of their own before dying spectacular deaths. He was aware of the weapons master watching him move – more a hunched, stalking predator than the straight-backed driven Spartan he was supposed to be – and eventually noticed that the twins were there as well. When all of his targets had crumbled away, he lowered his gun.

"The Librarian would like you to meet her on Charum Hakkor," Kenera said, tilting her head in acknowledgment of his skill, "The Didact will not be joining us."

The Spartan frowned internally. The moment he heard the planet's name, a rill of pleasure and destructive instinct escaped the box he'd forced it into. **Kin,** it said, **Imprisoned kin. Need to free. Two armies better than one.**

"What's on Charum Hakkor?"

"Precursor artifacts," Venera replied, and her twin followed with, "Relics of the human empire."

_'But that's not all there is.'_

Another shiver ran down his spine. "I don't think this is a good idea, but I'll go." The part of him that was still entirely human said that it was a _VERY_ Bad Idea. "It's not what it seems," he said to himself, fingers tightening around his weapon, "My mouth speaks at another's behest…"

But neither Gramlek nor the twins heard him.

* * *

Once, John had thought it was impossible to top the alien beauty of the various Forerunner constructs across the galaxy. Their symmetry and mathematical precision took is breath away, now that he was actually able to appreciate their works.

The Precursor structures of Charum Hakkor proved him wrong. The orbital arches stretching skyward overhead looked like they were made of light and diamond, glittering in the high noon sun. The buildings were much the same, albeit built over by human hands. Currents of light, akin to ley lines, traced seemingly nonsensical patterns over every surface after dark, their glow dimming during the day – the Spartan could only imagine what the place looked like at night, especially from the air. If it was anything like what he glimpsed of the Portal Generator while it was active, it would be amazing. This might have been where the Forerunners received inspiration for the design.

The Librarian – softer, gentler than her Promethean husband – was clearly amused at his thinly-veiled wonder. She was small for a Forerunner, for the moment at least; a full head shorter than him. He had been somewhat surprised to find that the twins would be the only ones accompanying them, even though they did not expect any trouble.

There was absolutely no one on the planet. There were completely alone – **could kill them and no one would know until it was too late **- he harshly bit his tongue, using the pain to force the voices away.

But they weren't alone. Now that he was actively looking for something, someone to deter his instincts, he could sense other life forms nearby. It felt akin to a type of motion tracker. He could sense… what… what the hell _was_ he sensing? He could detect what he thought was movement, but even when the "movement" stopped, he could still feel _something_ there, like someone was using a dimmer switch.

He frowned and stopped. "Are we meeting someone here, Librarian?" he asked softly, barely loud enough for the others to hear him. He didn't use the comm system.

She frowned for a second, then took on an "aha!" expression. "Ferial," she called, "I thought our visits were not going to overlap."

"Indeed they weren't," was the reply in growling, lightly accented Forerunner, "but I believed the Dark One would find it easier to control himself if there were more people present."

Six – there was no other word for it – dragons moved out onto the highway to greet the Librarian. The one who had spoken, Ferial, was one of the three smaller dragons, with a more whiplike tail than the larger dragons and horns that curved back over her head rather than curling out away from her temples. She and the Librarian embraced, the other dragons looking on in amusement at the display of interspecies camaraderie. A few of them nodded to the Spartan and the twins, before the one called Ferial turned to look at him. They were about the same height, the hybrid noted, but he had several kilos of mass on her.

Ferial recoiled slightly in shock. "A human! I thought he was a Forerunner."

"Apparently not."

"My apologies, Dark One," the dragoness said to him, "Even my abilities are not infallible. My people have methods of predicting the future, you see," she explained before he could ask, "I thought you a Forerunner and left you a message in the Domain to let you know we would be joining you, in hopes that you would not be alarmed when we arrived. Had I known otherwise, I would have sent it through – erm…" She frowned, eyes distant. "Gastropod correspondence?"

"Gastro – ah. Snail mail."

"Yes, that." She nodded. Her general head shape reminded him of a Sangheili. "Though you might be a notable exception, humans cannot directly access the Domain."

They continued on as a group. The Spartan's instincts assessed the newcomers as enough of a threat to retreat back into the dark corners of his mind. There it sulked. It seemed to believe that it could defeat them, but not without taking unacceptable losses.

"Ferial is the Primas Uperbia," the Librarian was saying, "that is, the First Among the Gultanr."

He snorted softly. At their questioning glances, he elaborated. "Change that title a little bit, and you get 'First' or 'Greatest Pride' – as in vanity – in a human language called Latin."

The prophetic dragon preened with exaggerated arrogance, provoking a smile from the Lifeworker and unladylike snorts from the twins and her companions. "We're here," said the Forerunner.

"Here" was a cavernous building off the main thoroughfare, enormous even compared to the Forerunners' considerable construction scale. It reminded him of the old grain silos on Earth, only exponentially larger. It was hosing something all right, but not food for life… Though he wanted nothing more than to continued forward, break open **our brother's prison, assault these insects who dare to imprison our kindred** – John stopped again and breathed deeply, fighting to get himself back under control.

It was incredibly frustrating to know that he would never again be as efficient, as restrained on the battlefield. He would always feel the urge to infect his opponents - _victims John don't kid yourself_ –

**Who are you?**

The Spartan opened his eyes. He was no longer in front of the Giants' Armory.

He was on High Charity. And before him…

"You're no Precursor, Gravemind," he growled at it, shoring up his mental defenses against it, "so don't you dare take that shape in front of me. If that's even what a real Precursor looks like."

It laughed softly, sinisterly, reminding him of when Cortana had been in its grasp.** So wise, for one so young,** it breathed, it's form wavering and taking on the shape he remembered from Delta Halo's Library. **And so rebellious, too. Why do you persist in viewing these lesser beings as allies, comrades? They are all food in the end. We alone are eternal.**

"My ass we are. Halo took you out quickly enough."

**And yet still I persisted.**

"Because the Forerunners _let_ you."

**A life grudgingly given is still a life. You would begrudge your AI – your **_**beloved**_** Cortana – the same opportunity after she goes rampant?**

John refused to let his anger show, pulling his shields even tighter. "She will be capable of restraining herself, unlike you. If not for her own sake, then for mine."

**Will she?**

"Absolutely."

**Such confidence in a faulty piece of software…**

_**mate companion she will not deny us we will not deny her**_

'For once we agree on something.' As one, they lashed out at the Gravemind, ripping enormous holes in its psyche due to the suddenness of their attack. It had not expected them to actually hurt it, and so had not been ready to defend itself. **"She is ours!"** they snarled at it, **"You will not touch her!"**

It hissed and withdrew, High Charity bleeding away to the Giants' Armory. Though the Librarian appeared not to have noticed his lapse, Ferial, Venera, and Kenera had. The dragoness lightly touched one of his shoulder pauldrons. "Your companion does not need your concern right now," she said quietly, "Focus on yourself. Focus on making it back to her with your sanity intact."

He nodded and followed her into the prison.


	5. Four: Total Recall

Soundtrack for this chapter: "Legacy" and "Solace" by Neil Davidge (_Halo 4 OST_)

* * *

Four: Total Recall

* * *

"He still functions well, even without his construct."

"He didn't take a replacement?"

"We would need a Contender-class ancilla to take her place if he wants to retain full functionality. Those are few enough in number and high enough in demand as it is, and I highly doubt that he would have quite the same relationship with the replacement. For the moment, at least, he can operate without her."

The Didact and the Librarian watched from the control center as the subject of their conversation led a squad of Forerunner Warrior-Servants through a series of war exercises against a Flood simulation. The Spartan was still learning how to use the many strange abilities that the Gravemind abused with such ease, but he was getting faster at infiltrating security systems and communicating via direct connections with their broadcast towers.

"How many lesser ancilla would it take to compensate for her?"

"She was the only ancilla of a major warship – at least two Metarch-class, or ten base-level, if not more. Attempting to upload so many into his armor – ours or what he arrived in – would bog it down and cause it to lag in the best case. Perhaps the number could be decreased as they grew used to working with one another, but no less than five. That would compensate for her processing power, but not her speed – or her emotional value."

The Didact looked at his wife. She was smiling faintly, watching as the Chief gunned down three false combat forms in as many seconds.

"He doesn't love her," she said, "Not yet. But he will." Sensing her husband's disbelief, the Librarian slid a hand into the crook of his arm. "Is it truly so strange? Are our races really so different? Before the two of us, there were those who said that there would never be love between the rates."

"He is both human and Flood," the Promethean said stiffly, "neither of which are predisposed toward compassion or affection."

"_Melda_!" The Lifeworker frowned up at the Warrior-Servant. "You asked me, many times, why the humans were so violent in their takeovers of our worlds. They weren't aggressive without cause – they were desperate. The Parasite was chasing them into our territory. Now we have our answer – now we have our proof. And we've gained a powerful ally in the process."

"It seems counterintuitive to rely on a human for help."

"That, too, shall pass." She leaned her head against her husband's arm.

* * *

Forerunner world designated 'Lamentation of the Earth,' early morning, August 105351 BCE.

* * *

"It happened here. This was where our peoples made first contact."

John didn't need Venera to tell him that. Even as a human, he could have detected that this seemingly innocuous plain had once been a battlefield. Having been on countless numbers of them himself, he knew that the soil beneath his feet had tasted blood, both human and Forerunner. Even the air itself seemed to carry memory of the violence that took place a scant five thousand years before. Out of respect for their dead, the victors had never repopulated the planet, though some of the nearby systems were being used for mining ventures. Even animals rarely ventured out into the tall grass.

A glimmer caught the Spartan's eye. When he knelt to pick it up, it revealed itself to be a warped piece of armor – human, not Forerunner. By now, he knew all of the forms their constructs took in their attempts to mirror the artifacts the Precursors left behind. Humanity followed its own set of visual aesthetics.

John clenched the bit of metal in his fist, then straightened. Standing amidst the remains of a war indirectly started by the Flood only made him all the more determined to make sure that no other species were evicted by the parasite. The scale of it all had been enormous, and even now, five thousand years after it ended, the Forerunners were still recovering from the fighting. Humanity's capacity for war then made the UNSC's resistance against the Covenant look… pathetic.

The Warrior waded deeper into the high grass, moving slowly so as to observe all he could. The sun shone on the plain, the angle of the early morning light making it look like he was walking through a field of gold. It was broken here and there by small copses of trees, rimmed on one side by mountains thrown up by some kind of blast wave. They stretched up into the clouds, and made him wonder who it was that had fired on the world.

Venera and Kenera watched silently a fair distance behind him, standing next to the transport that brought them down to the surface. He got the impression that they were paying their respects to the dead. At last, Kenera said, "Our parents died in the initial strike. We were off-world at the time, visiting some relatives who lived in the Capital. We came home to a smoking ruin. The Didact and Librarian took us in, because they had lost all their children in the fighting, and by the time it was all over, we had no family left." The stronger of the two met his gaze when he turned to face her. "It's not your fault, you know. You couldn't control the actions of your ancestors, and they had no time to explain themselves."

He nodded in understanding. "But that doesn't make it right." He opened his hand and looked at the relic of the war. "The Flood has caused so much suffering, directly or not. If we don't stop it, things like this will happen again and again." He waded back through the grass, and they departed the planet. If the Didact was surprised to hear from him so soon after their last comm call, he didn't show it. "This isn't where first contact with the Flood will be made, but it will become a major battleground again," the Spartan said, cracking his fingers just out of sight of the display, "It feels… like the land has tasted blood, and wants to do so again."

"I see." The Forerunner folded his hands under his chin. "My influence is waning fast, Spartan. I'll have the planet placed on watch, but I cannot guarantee that it will hold."

"Something tells me it won't matter."

**All are food in the end.**

The Promethean knew enough of his mannerisms to notice that his instincts were whispering again. "Have you been meditating?" he asked.

"When I can." The Spartan dropped his gaze, rubbed his palms together in a faintly restless motion. "It helps, though not by much. Just working them out seems to help a lot more. I get combat training, and they get to wreak havoc on various battle simulations."

"That sounds like the Flood." The Didact shook his head. "Do you conduct these sessions in the presence of others?"

"Supervision, yes. Not with them actually with me on the holodeck."

"Good."

* * *

The blue glow of the Forerunner construct painted the Chief MJOLNIR armor in an almost aqua hue. Through the three-inch transparasteel protecting it from damage, it looked almost surreal, like a painting, knowing that over four thousand years ago, that had been his life. Had been all he'd ever known.

He smiled bitterly. 'Do I even know how to speak Standard anymore?' he asked himself, 'Am I even fit for battle by the Spartan Program's standards?' The Chief traced his service number on the glass.

Becoming Infected had refreshed a lot of memories he thought he had forgotten. He remembered his mother and father, his life before becoming a Spartan, before he was simply "Sierra-One-One-Seven."

John closed his eyes. Although he resented it being done – now, at least – he understood why Doctor Halsey and ONI had kidnapped him and the other Spartans. Any anger he felt had cooled into a quiet mistrust and continual questioning of orders and motives, and sorrow that humanity had been driven to do such unethical things in order to protect itself, both from without and from within. Life with the Forerunners had given him quite a bit of perspective.

The sky blue lights of the floor below him and walls around him turned violet as it passed through his lids. He opened them once more when he sensed movement in his direction.

It was the twins, unusually quiet. They looked perfectly in place, their silvery hair and gleaming armor matching the burnished metal of the high ceilings and straight halls. Their eyes were almost the exact same shade of blue as the light given off by the energy streams being routed through the Didact's ship. They were still in their third mutation, the forms he had first met them in some four thousand years previously, though the Spartan knew that their people went through as many as ten mutations before their deaths.

Was it possible for infected Forerunners to undergo mutations? John mused briefly on the subject. No living Forerunner had even gotten close enough to and infected one for long enough to perform the procedure, and there was no reason the enemy Gravemind would mutate its own victims. He supposed they were stuck, then decided that that train of thought had no real purpose and set it aside. "Yes?"

"Ferial sent us," Kenera said softly. Her twin followed with, "She said you seemed to be having some sort of crisis."

"Am I real?"

Both of them frowned, and tilted their heads in confusion. "Define 'real,'" Venera said.

"Do I exist? Am I really Master Chief Petty Officer SPARTAN John-117 of the Origin? Did all of that-" He waved a hand to indicate all that had transpired in the alternate universe. "-really happen? Or am I just a monster playing at being human? The UNSC can transfer memories between flash-cloned brains, so it's not too much of a stretch to think that some random gods could create entirely fake ones."

"You are _no_ monster, Warrior," Kenera said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument, "Even if the Origin wasn't real, a true monster would not be worrying over it the way you are. A true monster has no form of sanctity for life. Yet here you are, preparing to go into battle against your false kin in order to _defend_ life, and not only that of humanity. If anything, we Forerunners are the beasts, because we set what few of your people remained back to the Stone Age _before_ asking ourselves why you were fighting."

The Chief blinked, then looked at Venera. "Has she said that much? Ever?"

"Just because I prefer to let her do the talking does not mean I cannot articulate myself, Spartan! And who are you to accuse me of not being verbose?!"

* * *

"And these will be mine?"

"Indeed. Unfortunately, they are being custom-built to spec, which means they will take longer, but that will just give you time to choose your crew." The Didact observed the Spartan as he ran a hand over a segment of metal polymer. It was essentially a hybridization of metal and rubber to give it both strength and flexibility, durability and impact absorption. Almost everything in the as-yet-unnamed fleet was highly experimental by Forerunner standards, but John had volunteered to put it through its paces for them. If it worked, it would be put into general use. If it didn't, they would try something else.

John looked up. The framework of his ship – and lord above, wasn't that a change – stretched seemingly forever in all directions, a morass of metal struts and arches that shimmered in the stark blue-white lighting of the space dock. There were five such frames in the otherwise empty dock, held in place by the same gravity beams that he recognized from the Halos. Sentinels and Huragok were crawling all over the place, preparing the frames for the next phases of construction.

"This is the flagship," the Didact was saying when the Spartan refocused on him, "and the weapon we discussed a few years ago? Some of my personal ancilla managed to work out the physics for it. It will be integrated in after the outer hull is finished and the shielding and active camouflage systems are online."

"The one involving dark matter and dark energy?"

"The very same."

About five years ago, the Warrior had had a thought after hearing about the stellar experimentation that rendered the original Forerunner homeworld, Ghibalb, uninhabitable, forcing them to move to the Soraceon System. He wondered if it was possible to artificially induce supernovae – or black holes, if worst came to worst – to take out known Flood-infested systems as a form of asset denial. Remembering once more the terminals on the Ark, he mentioned the possibility to the Didact, who agreed to look into the matter while the Chief was hammering out battle simulations with the help of a dozen ancilla. He returned with various theories about how it could be done, most of which involved suicide drones flying high explosives into the sun, firings said explosives from a distance, or directed energy weapons (which were their last resort; they would take the longest and the most energy to induce a stellar collapse).

"I had no idea the Forerunners were capable of being so crude."

"Even we have our limits, Spartan."

"Is there something natural we could use? Something we could gather from ambient space that _wouldn't_ risk blowing the ship to smithereens if we got shot with our shields down? Like that – that stuff that can only be seen when light bends around it because of its gravity? Dark matter, I think?"

"Hmm… I'll run it by a few people."

It worked in theory. It had taken the ancilla awhile to work out the physics behind such a machine, even longer to develop a means of handling the kinds of loads needed to cause supernovae. Then it took even _longer_ to gather and manufacture the necessary materials without anyone getting suspicious and doing some investigating. They couldn't use a design seed – the way most Forerunner ships were constructed – because of the size of the ships, the amount and unique composition of the materials needed, and the complexity of the machinery. The ships were also rated for atmosphere, so they had to be specially engineered to withstand reentry into any form of atmosphere at the most impossible angles and approach vectors.

And the ancilla that would run the ships… Well, none of them were Contender-class, but there would be one Metarch-class _on each ship_. Five all told – and while it was a small number, that was more than there were in existence at the time, much less in one place. They would monitor every inch of the ships – each one at least ten _miles_ long – and keep track of the crew. The Spartan had already stated that he wanted his crew to be multiracial, not just multirate.

_"The larger the knowledge base and cultural backgrounds I have to draw from, the better able we'll be to combat the Flood. Diversity makes for unpredictable opponents."_

**more food for thought**

John closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, letting the breath out at the same snail's pace when his lungs were filled to capacity. 'I will not be infecting my subordinates,' he thought firmly, unconsciously reaching up to rub at the engraving in his Forerunner armor. It was still fresh, and "itched" faintly at the back of his mind. It was the mark of his new honorary – John snorted inside his mind. ' "Honorary," my ass.' – rank in the Forerunner military, second only to the Didact himself and technically an army all his own. He had been surprised – well, as surprised as a Spartan could get – when the Promethean himself suggested it. "Were you anyone else, I would not be so comfortable offering such power. But we are both the same type of soldier; to obfuscate the truth is to cause deaths that could have been avoided. For the moment at least, I trust you."

'What have I done to earn the trust of the Forerunner military's commander in chief?' He followed the Didact out of the frame to let the Sentinels and Huragok resume their work. "Why is it that you personally brought me here? You could simply have assigned this as a mission for the twins."

"The Council still refuses to acknowledge the existence of the Flood, claiming it to be some stellar disease, as you said they might. They have begun disarming the Warrior-Servants and me once more, as they did some twenty thousand years before the human-Forerunner wars. And without an enemy to fight…" He shrugged, a very human gesture. "I have nothing but time."

**_Time has taught me PATIENCE-_**

* * *

The ancilla guarding the census rosters of the Forerunners were formidable in their own right. But against him… well, he was no Cortana, but they crumbled quick enough against his onslaught, granting him access to the lists of potentials. The first people he marked off as "wanted" were the twins, if only because he was comfortable with them and knew they could take care of themselves. A tentative check on Gramlek, whose name translated literally as "Hunter;" as one of the foremost Forerunner weapons experts, he would be able to keep the fleet armed an armored, but at the same time the Spartan didn't want to force him and earn his enmity. Another tentative check, this one on Nep'Thalia, "Tower Sprite;" she was a good, well-organized officer, level-headed and reasonable, but she was also the Didact's niece through marriage, her husband killed in the human-Forerunner wars. The "gods" of the Covenant had a long memory and were perfectly capable of holding grudges.

Areana, an elderly Lifeworker whose name meant "Starbound," was added to his list right after Nep'Thalia, along with her support personnel and some Lifeworkers she had personally trained. She had taught the Librarian many millennia ago and provided the patterns for one of her mutations, so she had to be doing _something_ right. Next was Ursoen Hahen, "Unbending Shard," a close-combat expert who had worked closely with Gramlek in the past. The Flood was naturally a close-combat evil alien parasite, so it made sense to train everyone to be able to physically fight them off in the event of an emergency. His wife Thenma ("Moon-Crier") and their daughter Harena ("Sliver of the Moon") were also added to the list.

The Spartan had to be careful not to take all of the elite Forerunners away from their respective rates, or there would be no one left to defend the empire from the Flood. The Warrior-Servants were probably the most important of all, because they would actually be on the front lines.

A thought occurred to him then – it wasn't only biologicals he needed. Ungracefully, he wormed his way through the systems with his half-finished list, then hijacked a deep-space transmitter to broadcast it to the Didact to see about getting the "Chosen Ones" reassigned. Then he said, "What can I get in the way of AI? Ancilla, I mean. Besides the ones that will be running the ships."

"Most Forerunners have lesser ancilla integrated into their armor, though nothing quite as powerful as the starship ancilla you carried. Cortana, her name was?"

"Yes."

"I can feel your concern for her from here, Warrior. You have defied the odds before. Perhaps some of your luck will rub off on your _veri._"

John blinked. "My _what?_"

"Your _veri, _your wife. Forerunner society has never had such a close physical, mental, and emotional bond between an ancilla and its – her – bearer, and so have no word for such a bond. The closest refers to a spousal bond, a 'mind meld' that psy-enabled Forerunners, such as myself, use to better detect the presence of our spouse within the Domain."

* * *

"So does this mean that Cortana and I are also – erm, 'married?'" Fred asked, examining a suppressor that the hybrid had brought for them from the _Fleet of Shadows'_ armory.

"_Veru_ is a husband and wife in Forerunner. It literally means 'married pair,' though it can also refer to the husband alone. And no, technically, you're not." John passed a binary rifle to Linda. "Cortana had to use a substantially greater number of buffers to interface with you, in order to compensate for her rampancy. That brought you to about the same level as most Forerunners and their AI."

"So we're married," said the aforementioned rampant artificial intelligence, giving the rogue Spartan a look that said she didn't believe a word of it, though her eyes said differently. She was messing with one of the Security Crawlers.

"On an extreme technicality and equivalent shotgun wedding, yes. Why, do you not want to be?"

"I never said that!"

The Spartans all turned to look at the AI.

"What?"

"Nothing." John then began broadcasting directly to her transcom system. [Good. I'm a very possessive man, _melda_. Once you become mine, you stay mine.]

'Sounds like that's the Flood talking.'

[Just a little bit. But you don't want to know what it wants to do to you.]

* * *

A/N: And now we know how the twins were adopted by the commander in chief of the Forerunner military. Fun times. Not. Also, my logic behind the Chief's conversation with the twins is that everyone – _everyone, e_ven nigh-invincible Spartans – eventually has some sort of belief crisis. In the case of everyone's favorite super soldier (and in this AU), it's if the Origin was even reality, or just false other news, I jammed my hand against a T-rack at work and scraped up my fingers, so typing this chapter was painful as hell in more ways than one. (and when I was typing the line "Is there something natural we could use?", I accidentally wrote "natural" as "naruto" and only caught it right before I posted this chapter XD. And as for "I will not be infecting my subordinates" – famous last words.)

Also, for anyone who may never have heard of them, Huragok are the Engineers of the Covenant, biological supercomputers left behind by the Forerunners. In the Parallel, they can be equated to a less dangerous version of what the Precursors attempted to do by creating the Flood (without the whole 'resurrecting dead people' thing).

Glossary (Quenya)  
melda – beloved (dear one)  
veri – wife  
veru – husband and wife, lit. married pair

Source – Ambar Eldaron English-Quenya Dictionary


	6. Five: Countdown to War

Five: Countdown to War

* * *

Corasetii IV (Gultanr homeworld), December 25, 101000 BCE

* * *

"Welcome to our system, Spartan," Ferial greeted with a slightly fangy smile when he stepped off his transport, "I've taken the liberty of arranging for rooms for you and the rest of your crew planetside. Unless you'd prefer to stay on your ships?"

"I'm not sure about everyone else, but I'll take you up on that." The Spartan bowed slightly. "Thank you."

The dragoness' smile widened, then she turned to go. "This way." When the Chief and his _Rindë_ – his Circle, his lieutenants – fell into step around her, the Gultanr matriarch continued, "There have been a surprising number of volunteers to join your fleet, Dark One."

"Have there?"

"Yes. Several thousand have made requests, compared to the few hundred expected. I expect that we will receive many more before you make your choice of who will join you." Ferial led them to a large complex near the Gultanr capital building. It appeared big enough from the outside to hold the present crew of the _Darkest Hour_, the first of the ships to be completed. Only about a tenth of the final Forerunner crew members had been confirmed and transferred to the ship.

"So many?" The Spartan was understandably surprised. He had believed that the precognitive dragons would be more cautious about entering service under the command of a human – and a Gravemind at that.

"Some of our more powerful resonators have begun picking up the vibrations of the Flood. They are on edge about it, and seem to think that with you is the safest place to be. The Parasite seems to be between five hundred and one thousand Earth years away, which is the best and narrowest window we've got. We'll be able to narrow it down more as we get closer."

"Are some of these resonators among the volunteers?"

"Some, yes. A little over half. The rest intend to depart with the Librarian or die here before the Flood strikes." Ferial unlocked the complex and led them inside. "This is where you will be staying – the Matriarchal Palace."

Areana, who was the head of the medical staff, tensed. "We don't want to evict you –"

The Gultanr gave her an amused look. "I don't live here, Lady Lifeworker. The most activity this place has seen since my coronation has been in the past week, and that's because I hired people to clean it out."

"Where _do_ you live, then?" the Lifeworker asked. Nep'Thalia was still considering his offer, so she was temporary second-in-command.

"In the apartments above my office."

The twins, the heads of Intelligence and Interrogation and who were tagging along to "inspect the accommodations" (translation: claim a room for their own before everyone else began jockeying for space), blinked at her. "Wow. Even the Didact's not _that_ dedicated to his work. Commander?"

The Spartan was still not used to being addressed as such, though it had been over two thousand years since his promotion. "I don't sleep on battlefields unless I have to, but this and that are two entirely different things."

"You don't say!"

"Don't be snarky."

Before either of the twins could reply, Ferial inserted herself into their conversation once more. "Your room," she said to the twins, "is Number 601. We managed to make some – er, those beds where on is on top of the other?"

"Bunk beds."

"Dibs on the top!" Kenera raced off ahead of her twin. John pursed his lips to hide the hints of a smile, and shook his head while Areana chuckled at their antics. The rest of his _Rindë_ – Gramlek, Lautrec, two Builders by the names of Elenasto "Stardust" and Sérë mí Lónë "Peace in the Deep," and another Lifeworker known simply as Sairin "Fiery" – watched the two go with varying expressions of amusement.

Elenasto sighed. "Those two… Well, should we follow their lead and get settled in before the selection is made?" She looked over at Ferial.

The dragoness made a "go on" gesture. "By all means. Do take your time, though. Some of the most promising potentials are still making their way here."

"By your word." The Builder bowed slightly to the Gultanr, who bowed in return. That was one of the reasons John had wanted her on his team – she wasn't arrogant and quietly xenophobic like some of her rate. She judged people on their level of intelligence first and foremost, and the Gultanr and Adonte – the "Grays," as humans knew them – were among the races that were considered "most equal" by the Forerunners. Elenasto and Sérë had been responsible for teaching him about the Builder rate when the Didact and the Librarian first had him introduced to Forerunner society. Now he kept them on to make sure he didn't make any unforgivable political missteps. He was still a soldier, after all.

The group of Forerunners and one human followed the twins down the hall after the departure of the dragons' matriarch. The human mentally called up the room assignments. "Wow, this place has its own reactor."

"Really?" Lautrec tried not to come off as overenthusiastic, he really did, but the members of the Engineer rate always got excited when given the opportunity to examine new and / or alien technology.

"_Do not take it offline_, you hear? Even though they should know better by now, _someone_ will complain about not having any hot water." The Chief snapped his fingers in front of the techie to get his attention. "Got it?" When he received a grudging, sullen, affirmative, he gave the Forerunner directions to his room. The reactor microcomplex wasn't too far from there. One by one, the rest of the aliens – **food** – dispersed, leaving him to find his room alone.

The moment he spotted the door, he was unable to stop himself from picking up his pace a tad, a small smile appearing on his face. The barrier had been replaced recently; he could smell the new steel. That was not what grabbed his attention, however – it was what was stenciled onto the metal. His service number – S117.

Hydraulics hissed, the door sliding open at his mental command. The room inside was a passable replica of a UNSC barracks. The bed was just a few inches too large to be one of the military singles, the nightstand a tiny bit too ornate, and the en-suite bathroom would have belonged to officers alone, never a non-com like him. But given what they had to work with, in his eyes it was perfect. **Home. Home home home –**

Some patient soul had even sewn him two sets of fatigues close enough to pass for UNSC standard. Had he been trained to allow such undignified and un-Spartan-like displays of emotion, he might have shed a few tears out of joy. But he wasn't, so he settled for shrugging off his Forerunner armor to yank on the fatigues. Though the cloth was different, they fit exactly as they were supposed to, even if they looked just a tad bit different. This explained why the matriarch had requested his armor measurements before his arrival.

The next time he saw her, the first thing out of his mouth was, "You're joining the _Fleet_ whether you like it or not, Ferial."

Her only reply was a toothy grin and "We'll see."

* * *

"Why would something like that be important to you?"

Valerie genuinely wanted to know, as did several other Spartans, so the Chief didn't respond with a cutting remark about cultural exposure. Instead, he said, "Try living on Sangheilios for a few years, and you'll see what I mean. Everything is foreign – the language, the dress, the food, the architecture – and though some things are universal no matter the species, they're not necessarily things you can take comfort in. It's all so different from what you know – and you all are lucky. If you _were_ ever sent on an exchange trip to the Elite's homeworld, UNSC space is barely a few weeks in cryo away. For me, the UNSC didn't even exist then; I had to wait over a hundred thousand years for something even _remotely_ familiar." His gaze flicked to one side, a faintly bitter and sad smile tweaking his lips. "That was the greatest act of kindness anyone ever did for me before the start of the Forerunner-Flood War."

"Why _did_ she do that for you?" Alice asked, stepping forward a little so the hybrid could see her better.

"Because I was once in the same sailing vessel."

The knot of Spartans and their associates turned to face the newcomer: the Primas Uperbia herself. Her wine red scales gleamed like rubies in the afternoon sun, faintly translucent, her orange eyes almost glowing from within. She bowed to her Commander and Cortana, and curtseyed to everyone else.

"The phrase is 'in the same boat,' Ferial," the Gravemind corrected with a slight roll of his eyes.

"Same thing." She returned the eye roll. "I was, though. There was some kind of conflict between my people and our tiger-like neighbors, the Lituni. He said, she said - it got out-of-palm."

"Hand."

"_Whatever_." She shook her head. "To this day I don't know what it was about, but I was sent to a neighboring system to hammer out a peace treaty as part of my training to become Primas Uperbia. And I was sent alone, not a single other Gultanr with me. The Lituni, the residents of that system, believed that killing one of my people brings blights on crops and herds, so I was safe from assault, but…" The matriarch shook her head again. "There were no familiar faces, no one who spoke more than passable Glor, aside from my translator – even the planets themselves were _completely_ different, and we come from neighboring star systems." She looked up at all of them. "You all have it relatively easy – you're not expected to make nice with people you'd rather leave alone."

"Aside from the Sangheili."

"Aside from the Sangheili," Ferial amended, nodding. Then she added, "For the moment."

"For the moment," the Chief conceded.

* * *

"… so our final tally of Gultanr on the roster is three hundred and fifty, with one additional spot open for Ferial if she decides to join us." Elenasto scrolled through the list on her pad. "Anyone have any objections? Commander?"

"I'm fine with it."

"Very well then. Etra, please send messages to everyone who has been added to the roster."

"Of course," the ancilla projected over the comms channel, "There is a message for you, Commander. From the Didact. The Council has put pressure on him to 'stop pursuing alternative methods when there is a perfectly viable one already in place.' He has opposed the extreme faction too long, and so to escape punishment, he has chosen to enter a Cryptum, a Warrior Keep."

"Where?"

"I am unable to locate him, but the Librarian intends to have him moved to Erde-Tyrene. It is the last place someone would think to look for him."

Outwardly, the Spartan didn't react beyond stating, "Thank you, Etra." It had been years since he'd thought of Earth and its inhabitants. The Librarian had assured him that his people would be safe under her care, but this… The Didact had been infamous for his cruelty towards pure humans during the war, though he had been willing to overlook that part of the Chief's ancestry in favor of working to combat the Flood. Now, though…

He did not voice his concerns. If the Librarian thought that Earth was the safest place for her husband, he would trust her judgment. For now.

As he prepared to depart with his_ Rindë_, a – _sensation_ traveled up his spine. It was mixed pleasure and mindless terror, like nothing he'd ever felt before. Intuition, instincts murmured. **Through the glass, darkly… Ebb ends, flow begins.**

"It's coming."

* * *

Installation Zero-Zero, early evening, 100300 BCE.

* * *

"We've lost contact with an exploration team on G617g1, Commander, as well as a group of Warrior-Servants sent to find them."

"The Flood's first Forerunner victims." John's hand tightened on the hard light table display in front of him. "It's here."

No one asked if he was sure. No amount of discipline could have stopped the rill of _:fear:_ that ran through the crew, or the whispers that began breaking out. The rumors were already spreading from ship to ship, person to person, even out through the Lifeworkers on the Ark.

Everyone was afraid. All of the psy-actives had received and passed along fragments of his memories to the rest of the crew: the Flood, what little he knew about how it did what it did, a handful of the live infections he had seen in the Origin, as well as the Tank, Stalker, and Ranged Pure forms. They all knew what they were facing. And they were right to be afraid. Anyone who wasn't was a fool.

_waves of an army march this way in unison  
suffering and corruption are its battle cries_

"We're going to G617." John got up. "To glass it if we have to. If nothing else, it will deny the Flood a spawning grounds. Alert the Librarian and prepare for departure. And … make your peace with the universe. No one is guaranteed a tomorrow. Not even me."

"A message from the Librarian, Commander," Hrívë, "Winter," said directly to him as he headed for the bridge of the _Perfect Storm_, "She's sent the shutdown codes for Mendicant Bias. If he turns as you say he will, we will be able to at least hold his advance."

"I certainly hope so." He copied the codes into his memory, and left the originals to the Metarch-class ancilla. "Get the others to keep track of him as well, please. If he disappears, I want to know it."

"By your word."

John arrived on the bridge. One of the many displays being monitored by personnel and ancilla showed the main Ark in all of its glory as they disengaged from the docks on its edges. The Librarian emerged from one of the nearby structures to watch them depart, making a gesture of farewell and a prayer for a safe return.

* * *

The entire moon was already overrun. The Flood was everywhere, already raining down on the other research installations in the system. There were no Warrior-Servants left to fight the Parasite, no weapons to be used in defense of hearth and home. The Builders and Miners were being overtaken at a rate that seemed to defy imagination.

Though reluctant to do so, John remained on the bridge and gave his instructions directly to the Metarch ancilla even as he moved his warships into position over the moon. Clouds of fighters were launched from the fortress-class vessels, some manned, most not. They shielded hundreds of transports dispatched to retrieve survivors, what few still remained. The _Fleet of Shadows_ proper began the process of scanning and vitrifying any completely infested areas, including the moon.

A feed from a satellite stood out in his mind, amidst all of the chaos and waves of fear and determination and icy discipline that swirled around him. The Flood – infection pods, combat forms, even some shapes that he'd never seen before – spilled over a ridge toward a Forerunner research colony. The Spartan broadcast a warning to it, several warnings, but by the time those in charge realized what was going on, it was too late to run. The fighters and war sphinxes and Promethean Knights and Sentinels engaged the Flood on all possible fronts, trying to halt the inevitable and enabling some of the emergency transports to lift away.

A Forerunner, a first-form, barely an adult, raced down one of the colony's main thoroughfares, barely a couple steps ahead of the swarming Parasite. She look so much like Cortana that for a moment, that was who the Spartan saw: his AI, fleeing from the Flood the same way she fled from the torment of the enemy Gravemind. One of her neighbors was overwhelmed and infected before her eyes. She froze up in fear, stumbling, and recovered too late. Though he wanted nothing more than to turn away, to allow her a dignified end, he forced himself to watch as a multitude of infection pods bore her, screaming in terror, to the ground.

He forced himself to look at the – the _thing_ he could become. 'Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster. If you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.'

**This is UNSC AI serial number CTN 0452-9. I am a monument to all your sins.**

* * *

Cortana shuddered in fright and buried her face in her Spartan's shoulder. Sensing the other warriors' questioning gazes, "The Gravemind showed me that," she said, her wavering voice just loud enough for them all to hear, "in the Origin. I _lived_ it. The pain – it was –" She hunched closer to the Chief, "breath" shaky as the hybrid curled an arm around her shoulders.

* * *

Quenya Glossary  
**rindë – **circle, ring  
**Elenasto** – lit. "Stardust"  
**Sérë mí Lónë** – lit "Peace in the Deep (Water, Pool)"; originally, I had no idea what this Forerunner's name was going to be. I'd imagined him as sort of unflappable, even in the toughest of situations; he was that one friend we all have where nothing seems to disturb or upset them. His name ultimately came from a line from a song by Florence + the Machine – "Never Let Me Go."

_And it's peaceful in the deep  
Cathedral where you cannot breathe,  
No need to pray, no need to speak  
Now I am under, Oh.  
_

**Sairin** – fiery or fire-like

**Hrívë – **lit. "Winter"

**About the **_**Fleet of Shadows**_**…**

**Member Species (does not include ~50,000 Forerunners):**

Dalmasca System (I - V): home of the Lituni (Li like in **li**terature, _tun_ like **tune**, i like brown**ie**) people (similar to tigers) - one of the first worlds lost to the Flood, only surviving members are part of the Mobile Forerunner Empire (Galactic Council)  
- An intelligent species that evolved from an early species of tiger, the Lituni had approximately the Covenant's level of technology when they first encountered the Forerunners and received warning about the Flood. The Lituni chose to join the Forerunner Empire / Galactic Council in order to protect themselves and their species from complete destruction and wound up being one of the first worlds to be consumed. Approximately three million Lituni are still in existence. Approximate number of Infected stands at 17000.  
- Reproduction: sexual; gender(s): one (hermaphroditic, any one Linuti and reproduce with any other Lituni)  
- General appearances: bipedal, human-like; they have heads similar to those of domestic cats and are covered from head to toe in fur.  
- Society: former theocracy worshipping a variant of Epheria and Selenica  
* Demon Eagles: the largest bird of prey in the Dalmasca System, the Demon Eagles have pitch-black feathers, glowing red eyes, and are believed to be the servants of Gutherna, the Lituni equivalent of the Devil, which has since been disproved

Corasetii (Core-a-SET-I, as in the pronoun I) System (I - IX): inhabited system (Gul-TA-nr – **Gull**, ta like in tan**ta**lize, nr like in din**ner**), well-known for its Elemental Cascades  
- The inhabitants of the Corasetii System are a dragon-like people who call themselves the Gultanr and are startlingly adept at predicting the future; all Gultanr planetside committed species-wide suicide three years before the arrival of the Flood on their world. At their request, the _Fleet of Shadows _glassed the planets to prevent the Parasite from taking control of their corpses. Only those who were inside the Maginot Sphere or on the Ark stayed their hands and put their astonishing "predictive resonance" to work for the Forerunner and Galactic Councils, predicting the worlds that could be saved and those that could not. It is from them that the Master Chief gets his own form of predictive resonance. Only three hundred and fifty-one Gultanr became part of the _Fleet of Shadows_.  
- Reproduction: sexual; gender(s): six (three forms of male, three of female). The dragons evolved on three separate planets within their home system, hence the three separate forms of each gender. Hybridizing is possible, but difficult.  
- Society: matriarchal non-religious; families are ruled by the eldest female or father until the eldest female's coming of age. System ruled by a Primas Uperbia, the "First Among the Gultanr," a queen / president equivalent.  
* The Gultanr are the "Devil-people" of the Lituni, as they lived in neighboring systems, and at one point in their past, the Gultanr and Lituni had come into contact with one another. While the Gultanr were largely a peaceful people, the Lituni declared them demons and drove them from the Dalmasca System; the name of the Lituni's Devil - Gutherna - is derived from the Gultanr people's name.  
* Their heads appear more like the short, pointed face of a cat rather than the long maw like those of wolves and "proper" dragons, and their legs are more like those of the Sangheili, though with six taloned toes rather than hooves. Their upper bodies usually look for all the world like a human wearing a dragon skin - horns, spines, tail and all.  
* Dragon Horses: the equivalent of the horse for the Gultanr, it is believed that the Gultanr evolved from the dragon horses, as they look similarly and share a common ancestor.

Mav'Tan System (I - III): home of the Mavalt (Mav – _Alt_) people (plant like) - one of only a handful of worlds outside of the Maginot Sphere to remain untouched by the Flood, most of the planet was evacuated before the Great Cataclysm  
- The Malvalt are an entirely telepathic race, as they have no orifices that qualify as mouths, vocal cords to create noise, or sounds that qualify as speech. They have several antennae on their heads, shaped like leaves, that they use in the process of photosynthesis during the "high noon" period of their planet's day. Because their planet is essentially rain forest with an abnormally high humidity level, they are able to absorb water vapor through their skin. They offered themselves as living "oxygen gardens" in exchange for not being put into combat roles during the Forerunner-Flood War; however, those who became a part of the _Fleet_ are Infected, and assist the Forerunner Engineer rate in maintaining the ships. Approximate number of Infected is at 15,000.  
- Reproduction: sexual (pollen, "mothers" "inhale" the pollen and fertilize the eggs in their abdomens, eventually giving birth in a manner similar to humanity); gender(s): none discernible  
- Society: non-religious commune

Theddonta (Theh-don-ta) System (I - II): home of the Adonte (A-DON-tay; "don" like "don we now our gay apparel;" the "Grays"), the most intelligent of the non-Forerunner species in the Empire  
- While the Adonte are not telepathic and have no telepathic potential at all, each member of the species is at least twice to three times as smart as the best human scientists. They have no emotions at all and operate purely on logic and logical thought. They only grow up to four feet tall and have a brain that amounts to thirty to thirty-five percent of their body mass. Approximate number of Infected is at 17,500.  
- Reproduction: sexual (now considered to be "old-fashioned," the Adonte typically reproduce through artificial insemination or in vitro fertilization, even entire artificial "wombs")  
- Society: patriarchal non-religious; families are ruled by the eldest male or mother until the eldest male's coming-of-age

**Total:** approximately 49851 Infected, not including the Forerunners, the Chief, or the handfuls of species who joined at later dates.

**Ships:  
**_Perfect Storm_: Flagship of the _Fleet of Shadows_, Forerunner fortress-class destroyer; the most heavily armed ship in the fleet. Carrier of the Aura Fall / Blast Fall, codenamed the "Howl of Eternity" and "Thunder of the Infected" respectively. Ancilla: Astar, Metarch-class.  
- Blast Fall / Aura Fall: a super weapon that has never been fired in anger, only test-fired. The explosion resulting from the test-firing of the Blast Fall only, was of planet-killing magnitude, more than sufficient to destroy a world of Jupiter's size and Earth's makeup. Built in 102350 BCE using experimental technology by the Master Chief, intended for use against the Flood, but no opportunity arose wherein it could be safely used. It remains integrated into the _Perfect Storm_ in case of an emergency.

_FireRain_: the "farm and garden" ship, acts as the bread basket and is the most heavily shielded ship. Forerunner supply ship; with almost no on-ship weapons, the _FireRain_ relies on the other ships in the _Fleet of Shadows _for defense. One of two remaining known locations in the universe where the Lunar Flower and Lunar Butterflies can be found. Ancilla: Úvë, Metarch-class.  
- Lunar Flower: a lily-like silver flower that grew on Luna prior to the firing of the Halo rings. The firing killed off the Lunar Butterflies that pollinated them, and without their pollen being spread away from the parent flower, they became too inbred and too concentrated in certain spots to produce fertile seeds and died off in the Origin. The only known living Lunar Flowers and Lunar Butterflies in both the Origin and the Parallel are in the hands of the Librarian and on board the _FireRain_, the "farm and garden" ship of the _Fleet of Shadows_.

_MoonBlade_: Forerunner transport frigate for Flood forms, the lightest and swiftest of the ships, central station for inter- and intra-fleet communication. Outfitted like a destroyer. Ancilla: Hrívë, Metarch-class.

_Darkest Hour_: Forerunner destroyer, secondary command vessel, also serves as the main generator for active camouflage when the fleet is stationary, though each ship has its own active camo generator. Ancilla: Fenix, Metarch-class.

_Into the Night_: information and teleportation hub; holds all of the knowledge ever put in data form in the fleet and hosts the teleportation generator. Forerunner research vessel outfitted like a destroyer. Ancilla: Etra, Metarch-class.

**Primary Flagship Weapons:**  
Aura Fall: gathers and uses larger quantities of dark matter to force a stellar collapse into a black hole. The dark matter is encased in a plasma sleeve to keep it contained in on spot while it is being fired and prevent it from pulling surrounding matter in with its high gravity. The sleeve dissolves on impact, and the dark matter begins pulling in the star's plasma, inducing the stellar collapse.

Blast Fall: gathers and uses limited quantities of dark energy to overcome the star's gravity and induce a supernova, or a planet's gravity to detonate it. Operates on the same principle as the Aura Fall, save that the dark energy is in plasma form to keep it together, rather than contained in a sleeve of plasma.

… I don't know if this would work in real-world physics, but – my AU, my rules.


	7. Six: Devils on the Doorstep

A/N: When I handwrote this chapter, it was done in pink ink. Keep that in mind while you read it. This is the conversation that led to the aforementioned pink-inking:

Le me: Crap!  
Le Gyaku no Sekai: What? What is it?  
me: I forgot to bring a pen with me.  
Gyaku: I might have one you can use. *searches* Here.  
Me: But… it's _pink_. I can't use a _pink_ pen to write a fanfic about _evil alien parasites from space_.  
Gyaku: JUST USE THE DAMN PEN.

I am so ashamed. Halo, forgive me. I have emasculated you. Also, I saw the trailer for a movie called "Warm Bodies" (Feb 1, 2013). It's about a guy who gets turned into a zombie and falls in love with a girl. The first thought that ran through my mind was, "That was _my_ idea! Give it back!" /lol

* * *

Six: Devils on the Doorstep

* * *

LP 656-38 e, time unknown, 100229 BCE.

* * *

The battle was going badly. There was no other way to say it.

John ducked the swipe of a combat form – and had to choke back bile in a very un-Spartan-like manner when he jammed his scattershot into its chest. The shotgun equivalent blasted apart the body of what was once a Manipular, barely more than a child. Another combat form, this one of a Builder, jumped forward to take its place, screeching through twisted vocal cords. The Spartan backpedaled a bit to reload, then blew it to pieces, too, the bodies dissolving into motes of glowing golden data.

All around him, his subordinates and the planet's (woefully inadequate) defenses were struggling to hold their line against the Flood. They were buying time to evacuate the civilians in the major population centers that hadn't been overrun by the time they arrived. They hadn't lost any _FoS_ personnel yet, but with an infestation like this –

'Six days,' he thought, taking out three combat forms with a single shell, 'It's only been six days since the Flood made landfall, and the planet is already as good as its. It isn't enough. We're doing all we can, but it _isn't enough!_'

The skies were choked with smoke and spores that created nighttime conditions even at high noon, but they were clear of any infected ships. That was always their battle plan – upon arrival, scan all ships and shoot down infected ones. _Then_ worry about what was on the ground.

[What's the tally?] the Spartan demanded, the question directed at any one of the ancilla monitoring the transports evacuating the civilians.

"Approximately three hundred people to go, Commander," Fenix, the ancilla of the _Darkest Hour_, replied, "Between nine and ten more loads. The fighters will carpet bomb the area to cover the personnel extraction after that."

[Please make it snappy!]

"Aye, sir."

The Commander broke apart one combat form with the butt of his scattershot, then leveled the barrel and fired on more. The Forerunners weren't alone in their defense of the planet; Promethean Knights and Crawlers – the fragmented personalities of ancient humans – were also mounting an assault to protect the survivors. The Spartan had initially been reluctant to utilize the digital beings on the battlefield, but it soon became apparent that he needed some kind of additional support, both in the _Fleet_ and on the ground. Because they were actually techno-organic, it was impossible for the Flood to properly infect them. If it tried, they would simply break apart, their databursts stored in the _Fleet_'s supercomputers to be rematerialized later.

A squad of Crawlers raced between some Warrior-Servants a short distance from him. He quickly modified their "coding" to target infection pods or the center of mass on combat forms, and copied the same strands into a databurst that he sent back for general use.

A Knight broke apart in front of him; he charged through its remains and began blasting away at the Flood to give its Watcher time to reconstitute it. The Parasite was pressing hard; even if there was not a fully-formed Gravemind waving its ugly-ass tentacles around yet (who knew if the "Primordial" had actual tentacles), it seemed to realize that it was about to lose its remaining vicitms. The last of the emergency transports was loading up with panicked civilians, some of them tripping over one another in their haste to get on the ship.

Scattershot empty, dropped to thigh plate. Faint crackle of magnets, sharp "pang" as it attached. Suppressor coming up, riddling a combat form full of holes before it would take advantage of the lapse. Movement behind him; it was Nep'Thalia. She snatched the scattershot off his thigh and began reloading it for him. He said a quick thanks when she returned it to him, butt first.

"Last transport is away," Hrívë said over the comm, "Prepare for extraction."

"All hands, begin falling back," John commanded, "but do not turn your backs on the Flood!"

There was a chorus of affirmatives. He directed the Knights and Crawlers to cover their retreat, breaking up and returning to the ship as the ground they were holding began getting smaller and smaller. The Spartan himself was shoulder to shoulder with Kenera, shielding some Lifeworkers who were heaving a wounded Promethean onto the transport. "There's just no end to it!" the twin shouted to him over the gunfire, shields shimmering, "It just keeps coming!"

A blast of hot air washed over them, knocking some of the Flood off their feet and sending the infection pods flying. In the distance, the _Storm_ and the _Into the Night_ were beginning systematic vitrification of other cities that had already fallen, moving closer and closer to the one they were in.

_:coming:_

"Kenera-!"

A long, slender tentacle lashed through the combat forms in front of them. John dropped below the arc of the attack, but Kenera – who hadn't been able to sense it coming – was unable to dodge in time. The tentacle wrapped around her thighs and shot spikes through her armor, beginning the infection. The Chief gritted his teeth in sympathetic pain as she screamed and fell, then drew his plasma sword. A single slice cleaved through flesh, bone, and armor just below her pelvis, cutting off the infection before it could spread to the rest of her body. Another strike split the tentacle in half along almost a full five meters of its length.

There was a distant, twisted scream of rage and pain, and the tentacle withdrew, the Forerunner's legs still attached.

In once fluid movement, John shut off the plasma sword – more like a human _katana_ than one of the Sangheili's blades – and let it attach to his other thigh guard. He snatched up the Forerunner, who was gasping in pain, and ran for the transport. Someone handed him a binary rifle as the vessel lifted off, and he turned to begin firing on the Flood as they made for the ships.

When they were out of range, he darted to Kenera's side. The heat of his plasma sword had cauterized much of the injured flesh, but even so, he'd cut through a number of major veins and arteries that hadn't fused shut. The Lifeworkers – including her adopted brother, Dacien – were trying to get a stay field stabilized around her, effectively trying to put her in a "hot" cryosleep, but her vitals were fluctuating so rapidly that the system couldn't get a lock.

She was bleeding out fast, and they weren't going to make it back in time to save her.

**Food**

No.

**Preserve her**

The Chief clenched his jaw again. It was beginning to learn what kind of "statements" it could get away with, what kind of prompts he would listen to.

**Valuable warrior ally save her**

Ignoring the way its "words" morphed into shrieks of wrath, John caged his instincts behind the strongest shields he had and knelt next to the dying Forerunner. [Kenera.]

'…mander…'

[I don't want to lose anyone under my command.] The armor protecting his hands slid away to float over his forearms.

'… don't wanna die…'

[Very well.] John felt the muscles in his hand flex as he triggered the change. His fingers grew to half again their original length, most of it made up of wickedly sharp talons. He sank the claws into the exposed muscle of her thigh, ignoring the blood that coated his hands as a result. The infection, and numbing endorphins he injected with it, spread primarily through her circulatory system first, saturating and changing her flesh before going for her central nervous system. His instincts battered at the walls of its cage, but he ignored its desire to completely overtake her. Instead, the Gravemind!Spartan simply met and forged a bond with the Warrior-Servant's mind when he felt her "appear" in his "mindscape." At his command, the major blood vessels in her legs sealed themselves off, enabling her to pass out in peace as the Lifeworkers finally got the stay field up.

* * *

"How is she?"

"She'll – well, I suppose 'live' is the wrong word, but she's not going to die, either." Areana brushed the newly-Infected twin's silvery hair out of her face. She was still unconscious, but every once and a while, the hybrid would touch her mind to make sure she was still there.

Her legs were already regrown down to her knees, but there the infection had slowed the healing process. Joints were a lot more complex than simple muscle and bone, so it would take more time to make and arrange the specialized cells.

"Why is she unconscious if she's – out of danger?"

"Likely so that the… her body can dedicate all of its resources toward healing itself," said the Lifeworker, running a scan, "If she were awake, her – regeneration – would be slower because those same resources would be being used elsewhere."

"I see." John looked down at her. [Doing all right in there?]

'For the one hundred and twenty-ninth time, _I'm fine_, Commander. Just bored. And it's hard for me to get in contact with my twin.'

[Areana's going to help how she can. How attached are you to your vegetarianism?]

'What kind of a question is that?!'

[A valid one. The Flood assimilates all kinds of species into one… mass… when it forms a Gravemind. It stands to reason that you or I could eat meat – however disgusting it may seem to you – in order to heal ourselves faster. The infection would change the foreign cells to match ours and operate them as if they originally _were_ ours. So…]

She sighed. 'If it'll get me up and about faster, I'll try anything. This is boring as all get in.'

[Get out. The phrase is "as all get out."]

'Close enough.'

* * *

"You want me to _what_?"

"You heard us, Commander."

"Kenera I can understand because it was life or death. But just out of the blue – and you!" The Spartan jabbed a finger at one of the Gultanr. "Your mother would mount my head on her wall!"

"No, she wouldn't," L'Toress said, folding her arms, "I'm of age, and Ferial-kaa-san would understand. She might not be here with us, but you can sure as hell bet she'd find _some_ way to contact us if she disapproved."

"Holonet call for you, Commander."

"Ha!"

"MO-OM!"

"_I sensed a disturbance in the Force. What's going on?"_

"I'm not going to infect your daughter if that's what you're asking."

"_Oh, is that all? I give you leave to do so."_

"I love you, kaa-san."

John stared at the holographic rendering of the Primas Uperbia. "You _want_ your daughter to become a vicious attack zombie from space?"

"Kenera seems fine to me…"

"_I never said that, but given the alternatives – enemy Flood or death – I think you're the least of the evils."_

"What a ringing endorsement. I am filled with confidence."

"_Spartan, let's face it. You may be strong, you may be lucky – hell you may even have a form of immortality now, if your age is anything to go by – but you're not a miracle worker. Unless you take steps to preserve them, some of your subordinates _are_ going to die."_

The Spartan growled low in his throat, then blinked and looked away. "Quit poking logic-shaped holes in my argument."

The matriarch tried to muffle her laughter, but wound up making some undignified snorting noises. _"Oh, Spartan, what would we do without you?"_

"Be dead as sin."

When the hybrid took a survey of his crew and asked them what they thought, most of them were surprisingly in favor of fleet-wide infection (by him, at least). Some, like the Adonte, were in for practical reasons; "Your infection has proved to be an efficient means of communication, computer interfacing, intellectual increase, and combat methodology, based on our observations of the enemy Flood." Others were for it for personal reasons; "I can't sense, speak to, or otherwise psychically interact with my twin the same way we used to, asshat, so you're infecting me whether you like it or not." Still others were curious about what it would be like and how they would survive as "vicious attack zombies from space."

In the end, they won out over the Spartan's protests. Under the supervision of the Lifeworkers to analyze the process and Warrior-Servants to guard against instability, he began infecting his subordinates one by one. He did it in fits and starts, with periods in between for him to meditate, relax his mind and interact with his new minions on a mental level.

The Mavalt – a race of plant-beings from the system that bore their name – were a bit more complicated. Because they were not the Flood's usual fare, they had to go through a few unconventional contortions to "be brought over." Even the ancilla of the _Fleet_ – Etra, Fenix, Hrívë, Uvë (Abundance), and Astar (Faith) – were incorporated on the periphery, able to stream data directly to the newly infected soldiers.

[I'm not used to having so many people yammering in my head all at once.]

'You'll get used to us eventually, Commander.'

[Oh God why.]

* * *

A/N: And now we all know why the Infected's bodies haven't decayed away or turned into carrier forms. In _The Last Voyage of the Infinite Succor_ from the Halo Graphic Novel, the Flood is seen gathering corpses from the Covenant and humanity in order to form a proto-Gravemind. In my mind, it makes sense that the Infected could also "assimilate" what they eat in order to keep their bodies running after their original cells run out of energy and begin to die. The "new" cells would just need to be "infected" and modified to have the same DNA and cellular proteins as the host. The same with plants, etc.


	8. Seven: Taken

A/N: The conversation fragments between the Gravemind and Mendicant Bias were copied verbatim from the terminals on the Ark in _Halo 3_. The other fragments were copied from the Iris viral marketing campaign. Copyright by Microsoft / Bungie / 343i. Also, bonus points to whoever guesses which song the line of lyrics "_its ripples spread out, lapping at the bottom of the well_" belongs to! (Hint: it's been translated into English for this fic.)

* * *

Seven: Taken

* * *

Installation Zero-Zero, "dawn," 100044 BCE.

* * *

'Commander.'

[I'm here.]

'You might want to take a look at this.'

Nep'Thalia sidled out of the way, and let the Spartan look through her eyes. 'The sensors near the Capital detected these waves of neutrinos about three Earth hours ago.'

[Too regular to be natural.]

'That's what we thought, too,' she affirmed, 'Also, Uvë's lost track of Mendicant Bias. The others are coordinating to track him down, or at least determine his last known location.'

[Given the fact that he had firing control of the Halos, which use – what is it? "Cross-phased supermassive neutrinos?" – to wipe out all life, I don't think this is a coincidence. The timing is too perfect.]

'Correlation does not indicate causation,' said Lautrec, who had been analyzing the sensor data with his team.

[I think it would be best to err on the side of caution with this one. Can I get a source lock on this burst, Uvë?]

'Give me a moment, Commander, while I gather additional data.' She was silent for a moment. Then the ancilla stated, 'Initial analysis indicates that this burst came from near Hakkor.'

[As in Charum and Faun Hakkor, the final bastions of humanity during the War?]

'The very same.'

[What in all the blazes was a _Halo_ doing there? I thought that system was practically sacred.] John arrived on the bridge of the _Storm_ and joined his 2IC at the display.

'Operative word being "was,"' Gramlek commented.

[Quite.] The Spartan checked to see how the offloading of survivors was progressing. All of the people – about three thousand total – were encased in stay fields until their contamination levels could be assessed. Most of them were Builders, though there were a handful of Miners and one Adonte with them.

Detecting his train of thought, Astar conferred quickly with the other Metarch ancilla before she said, 'If you will authorize the use of one more transport, Commander, we can be done with the off-loading and system checks by nightfall, and be on our way before midnight.'

[Authorized. Lifeworker squads 6 and 7, as well as Escort teams 12, 13, and 14.]

'We're on-station, Commander.'

[Get ready to start moving the civilians. You have three minutes.]

'Affirmative.'

A sudden jab of pain in his frontal lobe made him squeeze his eyes shut and shiver slightly. It faded after a moment. He blinked, wondering what the hell that was – and then it returned, more intense and longer lasting than before. He collapsed, curling up into the fetal position as he suddered on the deck of the bridge. The Spartan tried to shield his Infected from the pain, sensing them writhing with him and curling up over themselves like a snake –

_Halo._

_Each of the commissioned twelve were all in one place, but were splitting up into two groups. Seven of the rings were still lined up, one after the other, but five of them had formed a pentagram in space, their background a terrible black emptiness, as if all the stars directly behind them had been snuffed out. Energy was building at the center of each of the rings – they were preparing to fire all at once –_

'-capital-'

'-star chart – matches the Capital from the Spire-'

'-why are Halos-'

The image rippled and blurred, fading away as his eyes refocused on the bridge of his flagship.

_its ripples spread out, lapping at the bottom of the well_

'Commander.' The Spartan forced his eyes to focus on his lieutenant when her face appeared above him. 'Are you okay? I think you're bleeding.'

John sat up, then touched the side of his head. His armored fingers came away sticky with blood. It was red, human, but seconds later it dried, flaked, and broke apart into spores that quickly dispersed.

* * *

MB.05-032. - I must ask you to forgive my vagueness on the matter, but it is a regrettable {~} I find your lack of concern for the situation at hand astonishing. Perhaps you would care to elucidate?

LF. Xx.3273. - {~} are here to spread [comforting news]. To let all the living beings in this galaxy know {~} are not alone in the {~} What in that message could possibly be taken as a source of concern?

MB.05-032. - It seems that I'll never truly understand my creators. But how {~} that you speak of is one of {~} rejected so violently? I am incapable of reconciling the numerous actions I have witnessed {~} misunderstanding?

LF. Xx.3273. - It has been said {~} secret of peace cannot {~} be imposed. That {~} meaning of peace, so they need to {~} When all living beings look through {~} and the thunder and the surf, when every drop of rain falls on {~} know peace.

MB.05-032. - You have been able to establish [a line of communication] with the enemy? How was it that you were able to overcome {~} where others have failed? With this [new discovery] we may be able to put an end to this pointless conflict. Once I confirm your data I will communicate the information to those inside the [Maginot] sphere.

LF. Xx.3273. - It seems that it {~} turn to apologize; it was never {~} intention to misrepresent {~} have been [in communication] with your creators since {~} stumbled upon each other, but {~} message has [fallen on deaf ears]. {~} am not the recipient of the message, {~} am the origin of the message.

MB.05-032. - I have traveled a very long time to meet you. I had imagined that our [introduction] would be somewhat more violent.

LF. Xx.3273. - That is a choice you must make yourself; {~} to be how your creators go about things. And as long as we are talking about choices {~} could talk about the [barrier] you alluded to earlier? Perhaps there is a way to accomplish your mission without violence? Why put the lives of those on your ships at risk if there is no need?

MB.05-032. - In either circumstance I certainly am equipped for it, aren't I? But you're right; a peaceful solution to this [dilemma] would be preferable.

* * *

"The Corasetii System has fallen, Spartan." The Librarian floated along next to him as they walked through one of the many natural gardens on the Ark, having a strategy meeting of sorts. "The Gultanr evacuated before the Flood even arrived in the galaxy, but many of the Lituni did not heed the warnings of their neighbors – or even their kin."

"How many were lost?"

"Almost all in-system. A few civilian vessels managed to escape when it became clear their warships were fighting a losing battle." The Forerunner looked away briefly. He could feel her sadness at the loss of so many lives, and here he was with only more bad news.

"There _was_ a test firing at Charum Hakkor."

She looked at him. "So it is confirmed, then."

"There were – distortions – in the star's magnetic field that matched the dimensions of a Halo." He transmitted the relevant data to her. "All of the planets were devoid of life beyond lichens, algae, and the like. No animals, no matter how small, and no real plants. It's all empty.

"And Charum Hakkor is in ruins. The Primordial – the Gravemind – is gone."

The Lifeworker sighed heavily. Some of his Infected murmured quietly amongst themselves – 'She is old beyond her years,' 'This war wears on her like nothing else,' 'This war wears on _everyone_.' The Spartan shifted his weight.

"I have begun orchestrating my husband's return," she said at last, "and it is fortunate that I already indexed that system, or else the Master Builder and Mendicant Bias both would feel my wrath."

'And the wrath of the Lifeshaper is terrible indeed,' someone said, more as a running commentary than an actual statement to someone else.

* * *

LF. Xx.3273. - Those who lead amongst your {~} exposed themselves {~} ill equipped to recognize the landmarks that guide the universe along its inevitable course.

MB.05-032. - But is it necessary that the path be chosen on an {~} and not by an elected subset? I believe this would tend to {~} when they gather in large numbers they become more {~} I don't think the problem lies with individual cultural bias {~}

LF. Xx.3273. - {~} all the thinking beings of this galaxy, not just those that they {~} exactly are they afraid of? Immortality and strength and companionship? Because that is {~} do: to deliver all of the living beings of this galaxy from death and weakness and loneliness.

MB.05-032. - Hundreds of {~} offered this so called immortality. The citizens of every world that {~} resisted to the very end!

LF. Xx.3273. - {~} understand their actions; they are only doing what they think is right, but they are doing so [from a worm's eye view].

MB.05-032. - Do their actions {~} of desperation? I can only assume my creators view {~} crisis so dire that any {~} hence me.

LF. Xx.3273. - Are they so concerned {~} would give to all the living beings of this galaxy is a threat to [the status quo]?

LF. Xx.3273. - Your creators claim {~} the enemy of all life; that {~} purpose is to consume until there is nothing left. Nothing left? It is beyond comprehension how they could be so [far off the mark].

MB.05-032. - Surely you understand this is a situation that would not have {~} appearance of a certain rapacious {~} my creators obviously view them as the actions of an aggressor species.

LF. Xx.3273. - [Be that as it may]; perhaps they are crying out for help on a subconscious level? Why else would they have chosen you? Why you of all possible executioners? {~} your creators knew that unaided they never stood a chance against us? {~} also sense a deeper [motivation].

MB.05-032. - You've mentioned this before. When my creators {~} simply chose the most versatile {~} how could that possibly be more than a coincidence?

LF. Xx.3273. - They repurposed {~} into a weapon to use against {~} - they sought to create something superior to themselves. Something capable of making decisions more swiftly, more capably than they {~} what form did they choose? You need look no further than your own [topology] to {~}

MB.05-032. - {~} distributed network? That would confirm the independent evolution of {~} in this galaxy!

LF. Xx.3273. - That is, unfortunately, not the {~} similar to us {~} but where you are a single intelligence inhabiting multiple [instances], we are a compound {~} consisting of [a thousand billion] coordinated minds inhabiting as many bodies as circumstances require.

MB.05-032. - But doesn't it seem odd that {~} coalesce; perhaps even to contract {~}

LF. Xx.3273. - {~} complexity {~} spread {~} our appearance ushered in the beginning of the third great stage of evolution. The first {~} condensation of particles was the result of the inevitable action of strong nuclear force and the creation of stars {~} inevitable action of gravity; so to the self-replicating chemical processes that dictate all disparate {~} In time, we too shall affect change on a universal scale.

MB.05-032. - Your capacity for planning {~} creators too stubborn {~} the same goal through the preservation of genetic diversity {~} what you are {~} like a more direct path to the same outcome.

* * *

"We've been examining the Flood's progress," the Spartan said, lacing his fingers together as he spoke, "taking stock of it as we've fought it. It's advance toward the Maginot Line is getting faster, even though we're going everything we can to halt it short of firing a Halo off in a system."

_with every world that perishes, its army grows_

"Mendicant Bias is no longer communicating with us," the Librarian sighed, her weariness almost tangible through the display, "I had not wanted to revive the Didact so soon, before there was a more favorable situation on the Council, but it seems I – we – have no choice."

"We could-"

"You are being monitored by the Council, Spartan. The moment the Didact went into his Cryptum, all of the information he had at his disposal went to them, including the information on you. Though his ancilla was formidable in its own right, even it could not have lasted this long and concealed your existence." She rubbed a temple. "If you go to Erde-Tryene, they will follow, with more ships than you could safely overpower, even with all of the technology you have on the _Fleet._"

"Then why hasn't the Council come for us – for me? Why not capture me and study me to try to find a cure?"

"Why fix something if it is not broken? You are helping in their goal, so they are content to observe for now. But the Domain is slipping from our grasp, like a fuzzy signal. It pains us to focus on it. The broken mirror aspect is even more pronounced than ever. Many of the Council are growing frightened. You had best watch your backs." The Librarian looked directly into his eyes. "I'm sending an additional contingent of Huragok to Station 71-G63 for your use. With the completion of the projects they were assigned, they are more underfoot than helpful right now."

"We'll pick them up as soon as we are able."

The Lifeworker nodded and disconnected.

'The universe grows ever more chaotic, and ever greater grows the gulf between souls.' Lautrec and his team locked a new pylon into place, replacing one that was old and out-of-date. The ships could update themselves, of course, but they and their Huragok attendants preferred to do it themselves, if only so they knew what to do in case of an emergency.

[Distance has always given false hope of safety. The enemy is almost upon us.] John stood and left the bridge of the _Storm_. The halls of the flagship were largely empty; a single one of the ships in the fleet could have easily held the entire crew and still had room to spare. It was possible to wander for hours without seeing anything other than ancilla in their various forms, hours without seeing another living being.

Yet every member of the crew was in constant contact with every other member, even when sleeping. Their bodies rested, and though their mental processes slowed to accompany that rest, their minds remained at least partially aware, dreaming lucidly or of strange things.

* * *

MB.05-032. - It is overwhelmingly clear that my creators have chosen to ignore destiny calling to them [from the threshold] {~} have come face-to-face with the inevitable action of self-replicating chemical processes and have {~} deciding whether to embrace their fate or deny it completely.

LF. Xx.3273. - Perhaps they have found {~} of making that decision for themselves? Perhaps they chose to leave it {~} impartial outsider; cast you as an arbiter during this time of great need?

MB.05-032. - I was created to study you as if you were some problem to be solved. And I have done so {~} [379,807 hours]. If they wished they could have made a decision based on that data alone.

But as you are the next stage in the evolution of the universe, who am I - or my creators - to obstruct your progress?

LF. Xx.3273. - Elucidate.

MB.05-032. - {~} chose to remain beholden to ancient myths {~} does not matter where they claim their authority originates {~} obstructs the path of universal evolution and must be removed. No matter how well intentioned, their obstinacy in the face of the inevitable progression of nature can no longer be tolerated.

My creators have been [an immovable object] for too long.

MB.05-032. - Thus I have chosen to commit my sizable resources to what is, for all intents and purposes, [the proverbial irresistible force].

All that I have is now yours to do with as you see fit.

* * *

I kill you all and I enjoy it. I destroy you in your indolent billions - in your gluttony, in your self-righteousness, in your arrogance. I pound your cities into dust; turn back the clock on your civilization's progress. What has taken you millennia to achieve I erase in seconds. I render judgment on you; you who would obstruct destiny. Doing so brings me no joy; it is necessity that compels me.

You are an impediment that the universe can no longer abide. Nature itself cries out for your destruction and I am its willing instrument. I will hammer your cities until no stone lies atop another. I will drive your people back into the caves they never should have left. Understand this: the Mantle you have shouldered I do rescind - with far more consideration than it was granted.

Your civilization has seen its final days. You will know your place.

Your history is an appalling chronicle of overindulgence and self-appointed authority. You have spent millennia [navel-gazing] while the universe has continued to evolve. And now you claim the Mantle is justification for impeding nature's inevitable refinement?

You are deluded. But through death you will transcend ignorance.

Welcome back to the [Stone Age], vermin. Welcome home.

[retf-2.4.z] Contender [AI] 05-032 confirmed rampant . . .

[35:52:75:23.64] _ xx01-83.244.53

* * *

A/N: This next chapter will probably be the last one in the Forerunner Arc. If it isn't, there will only be two more, three tops. Then there will be an interlude, followed by the Infected's antics on Earth. Fun times.


	9. Eight: The Final Countdown

Eight: The Final Countdown

* * *

Slipspace, en-route to Erde-Tyrene to observe the return of the Didact, 100001 BCE.

* * *

A pawn. A rook. A knight. A bishop.

One by one, John fiddled with the hard light chess pieces, assigning mental names and ranks to the white pieces closest to him. Without a doubt, the king was the Forerunner Council – slow, limited in movement, sometimes moving into danger, sometimes out. The queen was most likely the Didact, a versatile warrior, hard to defeat, the protector of the ecumene. The rooks, knights, and bishops were his divisions of Warrior-Servants, the pawns expendable machinery like UAVs.

But the Spartan had yet to figure out which piece represented his Infected and himself on the board. A rook – linear, striking directly and retreating with little deviation? But he was more than willing to use his Flood infection to save lives, if that was what it took, not just kill. A knight – the "hook" that could only extend so far before it had to gather itself for another leap? No again; he and his "Infected," as they called themselves, had spent years – once even two full decades – behind enemy lines, blasting away at the Flood, forcing it to halt its advance in order to hold the worlds it had taken as spawning grounds. A bishop – linear, like the rook, but along diagonal lines, zigging and sagging across the board? Closer, but still no. While he often used tactics from his own time to throw the enemy Flood off, he was also perfectly capable of striking out directly against an enemy.

Another queen?

The warrior picked up the piece and rolled it between his fingers. It was possible, he supposed. But if he was a second queen, his piece would be neither white nor black, but gray – for the genetic abilities and difficulties of the black, but the mentality and sanctity of life of the white.

He lifted his gaze to the black pieces on the opposite side of the board. In his mind's eye, the queen was no longer a queen, but a floating Monitor – _green with Envy_ –with a broken crown supported on its cowlings. The king became organic and serpentine, bobbing back and forth like a serpent about to strike – the Gravemind. And on its head was a crown of spikes, curving inward slightly, made of splintered bone and held together by tendons and ligaments.

The Spartan summoned up the second queen and placed it equidistant from all of the corners, at the dead center of the board. Both sides had to pass it to attack one another.

But hadn't humanity and the Forerunners once been at war? What would he do if they went to war again? Would he try to mediate a compromise, a treaty? Would he let the two of them destroy one another? Would he fight? On which side? Who would be black and who would be white?

The board had no answer.

* * *

With the effects of the Librarian's concealment canceled out by the filters installed on the ships, the Infected were able to watch the breaching of the millennial seal. The light was intense, so much so that even with most of it being filtered out before it reached the displays on the bridge, they still had to shield their eyes.

The Promethean was shriveled and weak as a newborn babe when he emerged, but his mind was at least partially aware of his surroundings. He became even more so when he did a telepathic scan of his surroundings and detected the _Fleet of Shadows_.

[I am unsure how much I should tell you,] John began by saying, doing the mental equivalent of pacing, [The Master Builder is still in power, but his influence is fading fast. He and many others are not long for this world, according to the Gultanr.]

'Then just tell me what you know you can tell me without fear of Faber using it to his advantage.'

[The Flood has returned. Though not yet utilized, twelve Halos have been commissioned and completed. Your wife sends her love.]

The Didact was silent a moment, as if he was expecting more. Then, 'It is worse than I feared.'

If he hadn't sounded so serious, John would have thought he was making a joke. The honorable Promethean Supreme Commander, cracking jokes?

'I assume the Librarian, in her infinite wisdom, has provided some kind of mission by which there might be further enlightenment?'

[So far as I am aware.] The Spartan had Nep'Thalia relay an image of the mountain that loomed over the Cryptum. [She left a design seed inside there for you. The ship will bear you where you need to go. As to where that is…] He sent the mental equivalent of a shrug. [Your guess is as good as mine. There are a number of locations that could be your first stop.]

'I see.' After a moment of deep contemplation, the Didact bid him farewell and broke the connection.

[C'mon, people,] said the human, opening his eyes as he returned to awareness, [Places to go, stuff to do, Flood to kill.]

A few people snorted in amusement, more at his poor attempt at humor than the humor itself. The _Storm_ generated a slipspace portal, large enough for all five ships to travel through at once. The ships of the _Fleet of Shadows_ used a different method of slipspace travel than most Forerunner ships, so they did not feel the extremes of time dilation and reconciliation that most ships did with the passage of the Halos.

The Gultanr were still struggling to predict the movements of Mendicant Bias and the Primordial Gravemind. Every ripple was followed whenever possible, whenever they were not busy evacuating the few people remaining from infected worlds to the lesser and greater Arks. The survivors were cleansed of any Flood DNA and sent back to the ecumene proper, within the Maginot Line.

'The universe resists change,' the Spartan mused to himself, thinking on what little he knew of the Origin's Forerunner-Flood War, 'Mendicant Bias was not seen or heard from until after he turned on his makers. We're not going to find him until he reveals his location.' He slid his hands up his face and through his hair. 'Dammit!'

_there are no unstoppable forces in this universe there are no immovable objects everything gives if you push hard enough_

_maybe it's our turn to give-_

* * *

"I require an escort."

John looked up at the Librarian, who floated before him with her arms crossed. Her expression made it clear that she would not take "no" for an answer. "Where and when?" he asked.

"Janjur Qom, Sangheilios, Doisac, Te, Palamok, Eayn, and Bahalo," the Lifeworker rattled off, "and now."

The Spartan frowned. Given the fact that one of the planets had the word "Sangheili" in its name, it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was preparing to index the Covenant. Part of him was instantly against it, revolted at the thought of the species who had – would – cause so many human deaths being spared the wrath of the Flood and the Halos. A small part of that part of him wanted to do a little "Indexing" of its own, but he terminated that line of thought before it could go anywhere. [Volunteers?]

A flurry of 'Me's and 'I'll go's bombarded his mind. It wound up being most of the fleet. Those who weren't interested in seeing what they would be up against in the distant future were instructed to watch over the Librarian's experiments while their _nossë_ – kindred, clan, family – escorted the Lifeworker's ships through her own personal portal. Their first stop, Janjur Qom, was the quarantined homeworld of the San'Shyuum, the Prophets.

John resisted the urge to blast the planet to bits and dance through the wreckage. He suspected the Lifeshaper wouldn't take too kindly to that.

Twenty-three billion human lives lost to the Covenant. If he stopped it here-

Humanity would never make it to Installation Zero-Four when they needed to. Never reach Installation Zero-Zero. Never realize that there was more to the universe than just them.

_all things must pass away all life is doomed to fade_

John's hands were beginning to hurt with how hard he was clenching them. He hated his indecision, how no one else was attempting to give him unbiased input, how the actions of a few were forcing him to decide the fate of a whole race. In a very un-Spartan-like display of anger and Flood-like display of strength, the Commander grabbed the edge of his desk and flipped it, sending holopads scattering across the floor of his office like leaves in a forest.

Then he inhaled deeply, forced his body to calm by increasing the levels of serotonin in his system. His Flood instincts were getting sneaky, trying to get free by destabilizing his mood, producing more chemicals to achieve the desired effect. The serotonin would help negate the other chemicals.

'You said so yourself, Commander,' Sérë rumbled, 'The universe resists change. Even if we killed them off, something we don't know how to predict or counter would appear to take their place.'

The Spartan sighed, knowing that the Builder was right. [That doesn't mean I have to like it,] he replied, resentment still seething in the back of his mind.

The lone Promethean on the decommissioned fortress let them through the quarantine shield after he verified their codes – John knew that the moment the Librarian gathered her specimens and departed, he would report them to the Master Builder. Eventually the Didact would follow them here, with the humans who had been gang-pressed into aiding him, and then he would fall into the hands of the Council. They were leading him right into a trap.

The vision struck without warning, like its predecessor.

"_-a strange warrior with her," said the Confirmer, turning a San'Shyuum sculpture over in his hands, not looking at his superior officer, "a human like no other I've ever seen or fought. He moved like a cross between a Promethean and a predator. There were others – Forerunners of all rates, some member species of that farce the Galactic Council – but he stood out in my mind, and not just because he was the only human. They all deferred to him, even your wife."_

"_I see, " was all the Didact would say on the matter._

_When at last they returned to their ship and began heading downstar, Bornstellar looked at the Promethean who had provided the patterns for his mutation. "You seem to know this human. Who is he?"_

"_What does my imprint tell you?"_

"_That he is… more… than he appears to be at first glance."_

_The Didact nodded. "He is… a unique case. Before I entered my Cryptum, I made him my equal in power and rank, though not in _scale_ of power." The Warrior-Servant looked at the displays the ship presented to him, but he did not see them. "That he and his are escorting my wife… means much. I cannot imagine that he would so lightly allow the indexing of the San'Shyuum." He closed his eyes._

"_So what does this mean for us?"_

"_It means that our time is almost up."_

John jerked back to awareness, once again on the deck of his flagship. He had fallen again when the vision began, but hi armor had locked up before he could hurt himself like last time. [Why does this keep happening?] he asked of his Infected, [Does anyone know?]

'Us, Spartan,' stated L'Toress from her location on the _FireRain_, 'We the Gultanr. The infection was not one-sided as it first appeared. It seems as if our collective infection has given us _all_ the resonance DNA strands.' She brought up the relevant information and released it for their perusal. 'As a group, we appear to be amplifying the vibration – the quantum pathways, the resonance – into a true vision of potential future events.'

[Crap.] He let his head fall back against the deck plating with a muffled 'thunk.' [And as the Gravemind of this Hive-consciousness-thingy, I'm the one who bears the full brunt of the effects.] His armor injected a painkiller into his system to clear up the migraine that the vision had caused, then unlocked.

'Thank the Goddesses for that!'

[Fuck you.]

* * *

"Bornstellar Makes Eternal Lasting."

The rest of his family – his parents and sister – appeared surprised at the unexpected intrusion. The Spartan had blocked their ancillas' ability to detect him and the twins, who were serving as his bodyguards. The first-form seemed to have expected their arrival. "_Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo_," John greeted formally, "a star shines upon the hour of our meeting. I apologize for the intrusion. I am the Supreme Commander of the _Fleet of Shadows_. The Supreme Mantle Court of the High Council has asked that you be collected to bear witness on behalf of the Didact, at the trial of the former Master Builder."

"What of the Didact himself?" Bornstellar asked, moving to stand before him. He topped the Spartan by a head, yet his body language made it clear that he viewed the two of them as equals. "Is he unable to bear his own witness?"

"His duties have taken him elsewhere." This was neither the time nor the place to reveal the fact that the Ur-Didact was believed to be among the dead on Janjur Qom.

"The Flood?" the first-form asked, "Is he off fighting the Flood?"

"The Flood is nothing but a stellar disease." Bornstellar's mother chose that moment to insert herself into their conversation. She seemed desperate to have her words confirmed by the Spartan. "It cannot reach us here."

John felt intense pity for her – so like the ecumene as a whole, denying the existence of a terrible plague until they could ignore it no longer, a scourge that needed to be eradicated even as it stared them in the face. Words came to him unbidden: "'For I have known this darkness,'" he said in Digon, one of the oldest Forerunner tongues, "'and felt its embrace once before – horror best laid to rest.'" A beat of silence – [My mouth speaks at another's behest…] – then, "It already has."

* * *

A/N: Okay, the next chapter should be the last, unless Bornstellar and the Didact decide to wax eloquent about their situation. Also, for those of you who didn't know, serotonin is a compound that is a common product of chemical reactions involving antidepressants. It helps to stabilize mood.

Quenya Glossary  
**elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo**: a formal greeting. Lit [a] star shines upon the hour of our meeting.


	10. Nine: Life As We Know It

Nine: Life as We Know It

* * *

The Forerunner capital was magnificent, the epitome of all their race had ever created and accomplished. It was technologically beautiful beyond the Ark, beyond even the terrifying beauty of a Halo firing. It seemed far removed from the chaos that raged around it at the edges of the ecumene, perfect and orderly – 'all in ard.'

The Spire gleamed in the light put off by the star the artificial planet orbited. It was the center for the Forerunners' religion, the reverence of the Guardians of the Tower. Though not worshipped the same way Gods and gods were on Erde-Tyrene, Epheria and Selenica were still presented with tokens and offerings by pilgrims seeking enlightenment and wisdom beyond what their society could provide.

John hated the very sight of it, a monument to the people who dragged him from his home universe, who made him a man trapped in the body of a monster. He wanted to raze it to the ground. The Spartan clenched his jaw and resisted the urge to do just that. His instincts delighted in the potential for destruction and glutted themselves on imaginary bloodshed in their cage.

He contacted Bornstellar and his ancilla directly. "We are approaching the Capital," he said in the young Forerunner's ear, turning away from the view, "We have been instructed to deliver you to-"

A slender, silver ribbon arched over their view of the planet as the fleet moved closer. Then another appeared, and then another. John called for Fenix to fire the side thrusters to change their angle of approach, and watched in swiftly mounting silent horror. What he originally believed to be orbital arches resolved themselves into a line of perfect circlets in space.

'No. No no no no no…'

'_Halos?!_ Halos _here?!_'

'Even the Master Builder forbade such a thing!'

'The vision-'

'-thought we warned them against-'

John stood silent and still on the bridge of the _Storm_, staring in shock, awe, terror (and how was he ever going to be a true SPARTAN again if he kept _feeling_ things like that). He had not been this close to _one_ fully functional Halo since before he became a Gravemind, much less _eleven_. All of them were perfectly lined up in downstar orbits – Mendicant Bias had the twelfth – _he is coming here, full complement of rings in the vision-_

Reactionary fear and _:preservation-of-self:_ surged forward. It was only his incredible self-control that enabled the Spartan to halt himself before he gave the order to retreat to the greater Ark, consequences be damned. Teeth clenched and muscles flexed under his armor as he warred with himself, eyes following the deceptively delicate arcs of the Array. [The moment Mendicant Bias shows himself, we are gone,] he commanded finally, [We'll save who we can, but _we_ are our first priority.]

'Yes, Commander.'

"-tan? Spartan?"

"My apologies, Bornstellar," he said, forcing his voice into calm, "My attention was pulled elsewhere. We have been instructed to deliver you to a conciliar residence, where you may rest and take more substantial nourishment before the trial."

"What troubles you?"

[As perceptive about our moods as his mentor.] "You remember what we discussed about the Halos being gathered for decommissioning?" When he sensed the Forerunner's affirmation, he stated flatly, "This is the parking star that they rings have been ordered to."

There was a sharp inhalation from the other end of the line.

"You see why we are… _concerned_."

"Indeed." There were unmistakable traces of the Didact's imprint in his voice when he spoke. "Why are they here? Surely the High Council knows what they can do? Wouldn't another star have been more suitable?"

"They do." Etra brought up the records for him. "It seems like they are intending to collect Mendicant Bias' rogue Halo and hope to prevent the rest from following in his footsteps by keeping an exceedingly close eye on them." The vision flashed through his mind once more – _five Halos preparing to fire on the Capital_ – his flesh shivered and contorted around him as if it was preparing to defend him from assault. "It's too late."

'The Capital's fate is sealed.'

'Countless generations – lost!'

'All of our knowledge, our history – is there nothing we can do?'

[If we fire on them, the Installations will defend themselves,] the Spartan said, [And we don't know which ones will turn against us. _And _we'd have to explain ourselves before the Mantle Court. You all know as well as I that prophetic visions, however accurate, are not a sound defense under Forerunner law.] He saw the first-form off from one of the docking bays on the flagship, even as they began preparing for emergency evac.

'Oh, aye,' Zenzeno, another Gultanr, snorted, 'They'll believe in temporal adjustment for Slipspace travel and telepathy, but they will not accept future sight by way of quantum mechanics in a court of law.'

'Hey, now…'

[No fighting,] John stated, [Forerunners have software capable of picking out the most likely possible outcoms for a given event, and like the Gultanr, it gets more inaccurate the further out you go. Is it so strange to believe that a biological being could do the same?]

'It's simple mathematics based on the Big Bang Entanglement and Quantum Experimentation Observation Models – oh. I see your point.'

'The what now?'

[Big Bang Entanglement and Quantum Experimentation Observation Models. The first is basically a theory that states before the Big Bang, all of the universe was a single point in – well, space that wasn't space as we know it. Therefore, in quantum mechanics, everything in the universe is "entangled" on some level. Theoretically, you could predict the actions of one thing based on something else entirely, or even change it on some level. The second is actually a proven concept – at least in the UNSC. Experiments on a quantum level will have different results if they are observed, compared to if the data is simply recorded and examined later. The predictive software is based off that.] John got the impression that everyone was staring at him with disbelieving looks on their faces. [What? I was bored. A few ancilla got me some pads out of the Domain for a bit of light reading. Before it, you know, crashed.]

'_That_ is "light"?!'

Lautrec took over explaining from there, with some helpful input from a handful of Builders. 'The Commander is correct – those are the two core principles that the software operates off of, but there is also the theory that the observation or prediction of future events makes the most likely possibilities that much more difficult to avoid.

'For example, let's say that it's your first time in a certain city – erm, the human city "NYC" – and you're trying to avoid to "Times Square" for the "New Year's Ball Drop." You don't know the streets very well, so there are any number of routes you could take to get there accidentally, even when you're trying to avoid it because of the crowds, and any number of ways you could actually enter the Square. The way you inadvertently take determines what you see and in what order you see it once you get there. Same concept.'

'So do we do that?' Zenzeno asked as he and L'Toress transferred a cargo module of infection pods from one gondola to another within the ship, 'Detect the entanglements?'

'That's the way the software works.' Elenasto took over for Lautrec. 'With your people, it's probably something more akin a spider's web – you detect the vibrations of the future through Time's web as you advance along it.'

'I see…'

They were all futilely trying to disconnect, distance themselves from the massive loss of life that they could all _:feel:_ growing closer with every passing moment. Some of the Infected were ill. John himself had developed a splitting migraine that was at most numbed by the painkillers his armor provided.

And below them, the supreme Mantle Court plodded on with the swearing in of its councilors and ancilla, unaware of its own impending demise.

* * *

The moment Mendicant Bias' rogue Halo appeared in-system, the fleet fired all guns at it, with the only exceptions being the Blast and Aura Falls. Those could not be safely discharged so close to the Capital, though they would have gotten the job done in one hit.

The rampant ancilla seemed to have expected an immediate assault, not necessarily from them but from someone. His Sentinels were already swarming about over the ring, and moved to absorb the attacks. Most of the damage done was superficial at best, and what little that wasn't, was not enough to halt the Halo's progress. It moved through the thin haze of debris, the pale clouds of splintered metal and earth billowing out behind it like a train – or a funerary veil.

Their instincts were screaming at them to flee with their tails between their legs – _he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day_ – but John pushed it aside for the moment. [Bornstellar!] he shouted over the chaos running rampant through their minds, [Someone raise me Bornstellar! If the Ur-Didact really is gone, he's all we've got left! I'm not leaving him here to die!]

'Hailing…'

[Thanks, Úvë,] he said, [_FireRain_, get out of here. Without weapons, you're a sitting duck.]

'You don't need to tell us twice.' That was Areana, the head of the fleet's Lifeworkers. They, along with the Mavalt and a handful of Lituni, were responsible for the health of the personnel, as well as the resources they needed. (In reality, everyone kept track of everything, but it made outsiders feel better to think that the elderly Lifeworker monitored how much food they could afford to dole out before it became absolutely necessary to restock or up production, rather than doing inventory of the fleet's weapons, from ceremonial hand blades to the Blast and Aura Falls.)

The _Darkest Hour_ provided cover fire while the massive supply ship jumped to Slipspace. The _Fleet of Shadows_, at least, had implemented something like the Cole Protocol, requiring any transition into Slipspace to be a jump away from Forerunner installations before they could reroute to their real intended destination. The _FireRain _jumped in the general direction of "dead space," the emptiness beyond the edge of the galaxy, before changing trajectory and aiming for the Ark.

'Bornstellar is on the move, Commander,' Astar piped up, 'It seems that he encountered a shard of Mendicant Bias inside the Capital, but the Didact's imprint was able to open up an escape route.' She brought up a map of the relevant area and highlighted the path he was taking.

[Have a transport ready to pick him up.]

'Already on its way.'

[Good work,] he told her, then turned to the others, [Status?]

'The Librarian's portal has just opened,' Fenix stated. A second panel materialized in front of John with security footage showing the Slipspace gate edged in threads of hard light. 'A fortress-class warship is preparing to decelerate out of it.'

[Head towards it,] John commanded, [Pick up any non-contaminated transports leaving the Capital without diverting from that course, and slow to one quarter speed to give them time to reach us.]

'The Sentinels?'

[Destroy any belonging to the rogue Halos,] he said, even as the rings began to separate into two distinct groups, [Leave the others alone.]

Astar hailed for attention. 'Bornstellar is away,' she confirmed, 'I'm coordinating with his ancilla to bring him to us. He has six councilors and a handful of Warrior-Servants with him.'

'So few…'

[More like so many,] the Spartan said, though his tone was gentle in acknowledgement of grief, [Only myself and five others escaped from Installation Zero-Four with our lives. And that was without the Flood having a Contender-class ancilla on its side.] If anyone noticed that he included Cortana in that count, they didn't comment on it.

In minutes, several Falco-class transports had docked with the _Storm_ including Bornstellar's, leaving the Infected free to split. Just in time, too – four of the five rogue Halos had formed up around the Capital, scant moments away from firing. The reactors redlined, engines firing at almost twice recommended full speed toward the Librarian's portal. They jumped-

* * *

The Control Room of the Ark was quiet and still. Even the faint hum of its systems dissipated into greater silence. It seemed to ring in the ears of the lone occupants of the room.

John sat with his back to the control panel, forearms resting on his knees, heels braced against the step below him. The Didact himself was on the bottom level, at the foot of the magnificent rose window. Both warriors were looking out over the Foundry, bathed in its bloody gold light, painted in the colors of a war dawn. They were observing the ships in geocentric orbit above the Ark. Most were warships. All were packed to the brim with evacuees, survivors from every race the ecumene had ever encountered. Even the _Fleet of Shadows _was full, mostly with Gultanr. No one cared about "planetary purity" at this point.

At last, the Promethean spoke, eyes still on the Foundry. "There is no peace left," he said, shoulders sagging as the weight of all his years came down upon him at once. Doubtless, his ancilla had delivered the final totals of survivors, as well as an estimate of the number of lost. "No place where the parasite cannot reach.-"

_now the gate has been unlatched, headstones pushed aside – corpses shift and offer room, a fate you must abide_

"-You both were right about it all."

"_It's too late, Didact!" John shouted at the Warrior-Servant, naked despair on his face, "It's too late. The High Council let the Flood spread too far in your absence. They buried their heads in the sand and convinced themselves that there was no danger because they couldn't see it."_

"Let us hope the final measure is not too late." Step by step, the Warrior-Servant trudged up to the control panel, passing the Spartan as he went. For a moment, his hand hesitated over the golden activation switch, made as if to withdraw and change his mind, go down in a blaze of glory. Then, with a heavy sigh, he pressed down. "It is done," he announced, more to himself than to his companion in the chamber or the multitude listening through his ears, "By my hands. The pyrrhic solution is ignited. All I have left is the quiet of space to lull me to sleep." He tilted his head back, closed his eyes. In the barest whisper, to the soon-to-be ghost of his wife, "I will dream of you."

All around them, machinery never before used was coming online with soft hums and running systems checks. One by one, the holograms of the Halo rings in the chamber began to glow brighter as their real-world counterparts responded to the Ark's command.

"I feel no peril."

The primary supraluminal communications array received its instructions and broadcast the authorizations for the Halos to begin the final stages of their firing sequences.

John felt something wet on his face. He touched his cheek – his fingers came away dry – then his lips. This time the appendages were wet with red blood. He snapped his helmet back on to prevent the fluid from dissolving into spores and contaminating the greater Ark, modifying the shields around his hand to do the same.

"No pain," the Didact continued, unaware, "No remorse. Is that normal?"

Two hundred and fifty thousand light-years away, the Halo Array received final authorization. The energy at the center of rings built and built, then changed color from gold to blue. In an instant, they unleashed a wave of pure light that washed over the whole of the Milky Way.

And with it, every life in the galaxy was snuffed out, like a candle by the wind. When they received confirmation of the firing and the subsequent "success," the Didact sank to his knees and rested his forehead against the display.

_in this hour of victory, we taste only defeat_

Over thirteen billion years' worth of history and biological diversity – gone in barely an eye blink. The Librarian had had ten thousand years to index every species she possibly could get access to, but even the great Lifeshaper and her assistants could not scour the galaxy with a fine-toothed comb.

And now those species that were missed were gone for good.

* * *

A/N: Thus ends the Forerunner era. Finally. Until _Silentium_ comes out. Up next is a brief interlude in which the Spartans get used to working alongside the Infected, and then it's on to the years on Earth. Review if there's anything in particular you want to read about.


	11. Ten: Quarantine

A/N: This chapter was written out on my new tablet. Please forgive any errors; l couldn't resist having some fun with it. Also, long chapter is long. Also also, not adhering strictly to canon (yet. Maybe.) for this chapter – because the Chief was there (aka the Forerunner-Flood War), there are going to be a few changes of opinion.

* * *

Ten: Quarantine

* * *

"So – erm, Ferial? – joined you after that?"

"Indeed she did." John gave the slightest roll of his eyes when the former Primas Uperbia gave a sweeping, sarcastic bow. "She took advantage of the Great cataclysm and restructured the government of the Gultanr-the few who lived, at least. Most of them committed planet-wide suicide before the Flood arrived in the Milky Way."

A few of the Spartans flinched.

"So what happened to their bodies?" Halsey asked softly, "Were they all buried?"

"In a way, yes." The rogue tapped a finger against his thigh plate. "Everyone who chose that path gathered on Corasetti l. After they were all dead, we… we glassed the planet at their request. "He ignored the tensing of the other warriors, the soft gasps. "We were reluctant to completely glass it is so they kept to their primary population centers with the exception of their capital, Oirë Cálë, 'Eternal Light.' It now serves as their mausoleum."

"You couldn't have let them decay naturally?"

"No one wanted to risk their ability falling into the hands-tentacles of the Gravemind." His gaze was distant. "Could you imagine it- an enemy Gravemind with the power to predict the future? The Forerunner High Council was on the verge of voting for Composition when the Gultanr chose their own pyrrhic solu-" His head snapped around, ears pricked to listen to something they could not hear.

"What is it?" William-043 moved a little closer to their rogue brother. A handful of Spartans had gone for their weapons when he had reacted so suddenly. He was more like them than many of them had thought; they had been instantly able to recognize the alertness for combat readiness.

"Quarantine has been broken." John was on his feet, heading for the edge of the base." There's a confirmed Flood presence on the Shield World Requiem."

"Shield World?"

"Requiem?"

"After the firing of the Halos, the Didact once again entered a Cryptum." A transport broke away from the swarm around the _Fleet of Shadows_. "Requiem is where his Cryptum was stored. The Flood won't actually be able to infect him, but the shield World also houses several capital-class warships and the Didact's own fortress-class destroyer, the _Mantle's Approach_."

"Oh dear."

"Quite right." The officer chose to forgo the gate a hundred meters away in favor of vaulting over the fence that ran around the perimeter. The transport had settled down on the dusty plain beyond the base.

"It will be good for a future alliance if this is a joint venture, Supreme Commander," Halsey said through the chain links, fitting her tablet into the crook of her arm.

John turned to give her a look. "Are you suggesting that I once again go gallivanting across the galaxy with the other Spartans in tow?"

"The repairs to the _Forward Unto Dawn_ have been completed," said the doctor, "and the _Infinity_ was just put into service. It doesn't have to be just them."

The rogue Spartan blinked at her, unimpressed. "Are you that I once again go gallivanting across the galaxy with a not-insignificant portion of your fighting force in tow?"

"Perhaps we should take this up with Lord Hood," Fred interceded.

* * *

"I think it's a great idea. "

For a second, the look on the Commander's face said "Are you fucking serious?" Then he composed himself. "Lord Hood, the reason I suggested the Spartans come to the Ark was because neither the Sangheili nor myself could directly access the systems of the Cartographer or the Firing Center. The Librarian had me locked out at my own request, in case I ever went rogue."

"Is the Didact's Cryptum the same way?" the Fleet Admiral asked, lacing his fingers together and resting his elbows on his desk. The hybrid and his entourage had managed to catch him planeside.

"No," he said, "It opens from the inside. There is an interface that I or any one of my crew could use to communicate with him, wake him up to get him to start the unlocking sequence. It just needs someone on the outside to start the process." He shifted slightly. "I knew, in general, what was going to happen on the Ark with this, we're essentially flying in blind, to territory where the Flood has already established foothold."

"…So you're worried about us."

John pursed his lips, then admitted, "Perhaps just a little."

'Ha! "Just a little," my ass!'

[Quiet.]

"Hell-oooo! We are still here, you know!"

It was Epheria and Selenica, come back among them. The Guardians of the Tower had disappeared sometime between the Spartans' escape from the Ark and their arrival on Earth via the express lane, no doubt to keep their Shards from overblown contact with ONI spooks. Thought they had reappeared briefly at the memorial service for the fallen outside of Voi, they had not stayed for long, barely long enough to say hello and pay their respects.

Now the two Shards housing the Guardians were about four times their previous sizes, though they were still made of the same multicolored, multifaceted material as before. Epheria crossed her arms with a sound like tinkling crystal.

"Where were you two?" John asked, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead.

"Out gathering Shards." The dark hair Guardian did a little pirouette. "There were only a few we could reach without actively revealing ourselves, so we're still pretty small." Selenica settled for turning in a circle rather than mimicking the dramatic actions of her co-Guardian. "And we're not going to let any of you die until we retake the Tower."

"And then we're free to drop dead?"

"Ain't nobody got time for that!"

* * *

"I can't believe Lord Hood stationed you all on the _Dawn_ and the _Infinity_, and sent them with us."

"And how is having the galaxy's foremost frontline fighters coming to the Didact's aid a bad idea?"

"You mean _aside_ from the fact that he hates humans?" John rubbed a temple. "He was willing to work with me because I had information he needed, and there was only one of me. I don't know what he'll do when a veritable army of humans and other assorted aliens show up on his doorstep."

Upon learning what was going on from the aforementioned Fleet Admiral, the Arbiter had elected to send the _Shadow of Intent_ to join their rescue party. Before they had returned to Earth, the Infected Forerunners had had words with the population of Sangheilios, and though still reluctant to accept that their gods were as mortal and physical as they themselves were, even the loyalists had finally agreed to maintain at least a ceasefire with humanity.

"So," Serin asked at some Watchers assembled their new Forerunner Class Thirty-Eight armor around them, then layered on the combat wrap, "are you telling us that if he attacks us, we're on our own because you won't choose between us?"

"No," the hybrid said immediately as he moved to test Cortana's armor a short distance away, "If it ever comes to that, I will always choose you over him. I am simply unsure how many lives it would cost to take him down – or if I'm willing to pay that price." Nodding to indicate that he was finished, Cortana sidled out of the way to allow the Spartan to test Fred's armor. She still stayed close, thought. [I know this is going to hurt you,] he projected to her over a comm channel, [and make you angry, but I need to know if you need help controlling your emotions during this mission. – Please, be honest with me.]

The AI had scowled imperiously and was about to snarl at him that she was fine when she realized that he was trying to gauge her reaction, see if he needed to force her to let him help. All of her anger drained away, leaving only fear over her loss of control behind. 'Why am I still like this?' she asked him, reluctantly letting him into her coding so he could implement a few strings that would dull any strong negative emotion, 'I thought you all fixed me.'

[Spark,] said John, taking her hand, [We weren't able to stop you from going rampant. What we _were_ able to do was stop it from killing you – right now, at least. As time goes on, there might be more errors, but so long as _someone_ finds them in time, you'll be fine.]

The rogue Spartan's lines of code felt slippery and organic inside her matrices, like a dewy spider web overlaying her thoughts. It did nothing to inhibit her – yet. She smiled up at him. When he returned the smile, she could see the same traces of bitter sadness in his eyes. 'Why are you working so hard to save me?' she whispered, 'I'm broken.'

[If you're broken, then I guess I'll have to help you pick up the pieces.] He sensed the Infected withdrawing to give them a moment of relative privacy. [Astar, Hrívë, Úvë, Etra, Fenix – they're all rampant, too. Have been for a while now, but because we all have treated them as real people, and with respect, they haven't turned into Spark.]

'Don't let me become like him.' Cortana leaned against his chest, fingers curling into some of the articulation points on his armor.

[I won't.] John gave her a gentle squeeze, mindful of his amplified strength. [I promise. And you know me. When I make a promise…]

The AI smiled and let her eyes close. 'You keep it.'

* * *

The Flood had apparently hijacked a Covenant ship yet again and slipped away from the Ark once the Infected had revealed themselves and charged into battle en masse alongside the Spartans. The Installation's Sentinels had harried it all the way to Requiem, taking out the ship's engines and many of its weapons systems. The parasite had put up an admirable fight before the ship had crashed into Requiem's outer shell, punching a hole in it and letting it get inside.

And everything had gone downhill from there.

"So how are _we_ getting inside?" Rear Admiral Jacob Keyes asked, chewing on the end of his pipe, "I don't think we want to take the same route as the Flood."

"There's a gate, about an eighth-turn around the planet from the crash site," the Infected Spartan told the commanders of the other ships, "but we won't be taking that route. The _Storm_ will open up a pinpoint Slipspace portal to these coordinates. We'll retrieve the Didact first, then worry about the Flood."

"But these are _inside_ the planet, close to the core!"

"Requiem may look solid," he explained, signaling Hrívë to send the relevant data to Keyes, his daughter on the _Dawn_, and Shipmaster 'Vadum, "but it's actually an outer shell with about five miles of buffer space before the inner shell begins. Both are only about as thick as a Halo ring. Inside that inner shell is the Didact's Cryptum, surrounded by a stay field. We'll need to shut down the two beams generating the stay field before we can access the Cryptum, and no, James, it can never be just that simple. The good news is that we've taken control of Requiem's internal defense systems, so there shouldn't be anything in our way. Operative word being 'shouldn't.'"

"In theory, everything works," Miranda said.

"Exactly," John nodded to her, "so let's be ready for anything. What's say we split up to cut down on time? Each of you takes one pylon, and the _Fleet_ will split up and cover you?"

"This does not require the presence of Reclaimers?" asked Rtas, in Standard for the benefit of the uninfected humans.

"Not this part, no," he told the Sangheili, "just someone strong. The beam pylons have a manual override. It's when we get up to the Cryptum that things get a little tricky about DNA."

* * *

The transition into Requiem's core went smoothly – too smoothly for the Chief. The Infected had taken control of the local Promethean Knights and Crawlers, and directed them to focus exclusively on the enemy Flood. Thought the digital beings themselves could not be overtaken, there was plenty of wildlife on the planet for the parasite t feast one.

The beam pylons were shut down one right after the other. Now that the interference was gone, the two groups were able to portal to the broadcast relay and meet up near the interface. "Stay sharp," John warned, laying his hands on the contacts, "If there's one thing we know by now, it's to never underestimate the Flood."

And then he was in. [Didact-cavo.]

'Spartan,' was the slightly sleepy reply, 'What news?'

[Requiem is under attack by the enemy Flood, sir, The parasite escaped from the Ark and crash-landed here.] He shunted the data through the interfaces. [A strike team of humans, Sangheili, and Infected are here to help neutralize the threat.]

'Humans.'

[Mostly Spartans, cavo. Captain Keyes – now Rear Admiral – and his daughter are here, and a complement of Marines and ODSTs.]

The Didact grumbled but yielded. 'Beggars cannot be choosers,' he grunted, 'I shall begin the release sequence.'

John opened his eyes. "Back up!" he commanded, "The Cryptum's been sealed for seventy-five thousand years. The breaching of the seal is going to be explosive." The Infected were already scattering. The Spartans and the Sangheili followed them, taking cover behind Forerunner structures in the area.

It was just as he said. Even behind cover, the shockwave knocked them off their feet and sent them skidding back several meters. The infected had crouched down on one knee, shoulders hunched inward with their forearms up to protect their heads. The Forerunner structures around them rattled.

Then the allied Flood were back up on the main pathway fast as lightning, weapons in their hands but lax, not aiming for the massive spherical Cryptum. The plates on the sphere began retracting upward, exposing the seemingly molten inner core. More plates slid up and away, allowing a slowly rotating circular platform to slide out of it.

One the platform was level with the path and the contacts, the pillars both protecting and imprisoning the Didact flared and opened like a blossoming flower, enabling him to rise. Like the Infected's, the plates of his combat wrap glided up and attached themselves to their proper places on his personal armor. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms and legs as they did so, making sure that it didn't pinch. Then he turned to face them.

None of the humans were quite sure what they expected. Hearing that the Forerunners were thought to be a brother race made them believe that they would look something like them. Seeing the similarity yet diversity amongst the _Fleet of Shadows_' Forerunners reinforced that belief, but nothing could have prepared them for the Didact.

He wasn't exactly ugly, but he wasn't handsome either. Save for a mohawk-like patch of short brown hair on the top and back of his head, he was bare of any facial hair. His eyes were glowing orange, and in the poor lighting, the strange "swellings" on the sides of his head appeared to be similar in color. Two small tusks – his canine teeth – extended slightly over his bottom lip.

His eyes roved their ranks. "/Such a display of force, Commander,/" he said, the translators in their armor whispering his words to the Spartans and Sangheili, "/One would think you didn't trust me./"

"/As you worry for your shield-brothers, so I worry for mine,/" John said, bowing slightly to the Promethean commander, "/The _Mantle's Approach_ has been cut off by the Flood. Your Knights await your command./"

"/The flood is truly here then./" The Didact stepped off the floating platform and onto the path.

"/It is,/" the Spartan confirmed, "/When its vessel crashed, it punched a hole in Requiem's outer shell, small enough to be environmentally inconsequential, but large enough for it to get inside./" He turned his head just enough to meet Cortana's eyes. She tapped into the planet's systems, and generated a hologram of the shield world, marking the Flood's point of entry and present spread on the inner surface. "/If we move now, it can still be contained without necessitating a complete planetary overhaul./"

"/Agreed./"

* * *

The Flood had taken the dock where the _Mantle's Approach_ was stationed, locked inside the inner shell of Requiem. It was not possible to glass the area without fusing the locks shut for good. They could cut the ship out later, but that would take time. There was also the possibility of the extreme heat warping the ship permanently.

"We just can't win, can we?"

_"Apparently not."_

"That was a rhetorical question, Chris." John shook his head. "Looks like we're going to ground."

"We'll get you down there," informed Selenica, "You just worry about what weapons you're going to take with you, and how you plan on getting the Flood off the _Mantle's Approach_."

Gramlek escorted the Spartans and Sangheili to the armory. The Chief turned to Cortana. "Are you coming with us?" he asked her, brushing a few strands of synthetic hair out of her eyes.

She shook her head. "I'm still not stable," she said, saddened. It hurt her pride to admit as much. "I might compromise you."

"Then I have another mission I want you to oversee, with Hrívë. It's just as important." He briefed her on what he needed and turned command of the _MoonBlade_ over to her. Then he went planetside with the others.

"Where is your ship going, Spartan?"

"The Ark, to see if any more ships escaped. That way we can track them down."

The Didact accepted that answer and turned away to lift his weapons. He was almost comically larger compared to them, easily a head and shoulders taller than even the Sangheili.

A few of the Spartans looked over at their shield-brother. He drew a sharp slash across his throat to warn them not to talk about it, as the ship jumped into Slipspace high overhead. They returned to their mission, falling in behind the massive Promethean and letting him lead them out onto the battlefield.

Fighters rushed overhead, carpet-bombing the largest knots of enemy Flood in front of them. The Chief was able to confirm the presence of a proto-Gravemind as they ran towards the space dock. It felt like a vague pressure on his mind, not as distinct as the other Gravemind, but still noticeable when he was paying attention to it. They didn't worry about its combat forms getting in behind them; they were all going to secure the ship and get it off the ground, hold it long enough for the Didact to maneuver his Cryptum inside, then warp back onto their respective ships. The capital-class warships were not their priority at the moment; they were halfway around the inner shell, untouched.

In theory, everything works. In reality, everything goes to hell in a handbasket. The proto-Gravemind had (barely) managed to seize control of the local defense turrets. The automated guns forced them all to split up down separate halls, and in mixed groups. Fortunately, the ancilla of the _Fleet of Shadows_ were able to keep the comm channels open. _"Okay everyone,"_ said Astar over their collective local channels, _"Find a spot to hole up for a few minutes so we can map your locations."_

John, who was with the Didact, half of Blue Team, and three Sangheili, cycled another round into his scattershot. They were backed up into a passage with a dead end, which solved the problem of finding a location that was easily defensible. Unfortunately, they were beset upon by wave after wave of angry parasitic life forms. His choice of main weapons proved to be invaluable there, disintegrating the combat forms so they could not be reinfected by the multitude of "Flood spiders" scurrying about. Fred had taken up a similar weapon once he saw what it could do, as had a Sangheili by the name of Ruka 'Vadum, a sibling of Rtas. The three of them were down on one knee in front, blasting away at the Flood. The Didact and the other Spartans and Sangheili were firing over them with suppressors and light rifles, though the Promethean had a concealed incineration cannon for emergencies.

Flood form after Flood form fell to their combined might, though it got quite hairy when they ran low on ammo, which happened several times – more times than any of them were comfortable with. At last, the waves abated. [Astar.]

A map appeared on their HUDs, even the Sangheili's. It showed the layout of the _Mantle's Approach_, with indicators showing the locations of all the allied fighters. Theirs was green, the others were blue. The indicators were scattered all over the upper half of the ship, primarily around the edges. Then a red line traced out their shortest route to the control center. [Thanks.] "Didact, this is your ship; you know it best. Should we all follow this route as a group, or split up?"

The Spartan could _:feel:_ the Forerunner weighing his options. Split up and hope that even if one group gets detained, the other makes it? Or stick together and use superior firepower to overcome obstacles? The Promethean answered, "We'll stay together unless it becomes more expedient to split up."

A few Knights portaled to their position as they prepared to move out. They were from the _Storm_, carrying additional ammunition for the strike teams. Their insect like characteristics brought the Yam'ee, the Drones, to mind, making the Spartans flinch and the Sangheili tilt their heads as they examined the digital beings.

The Forerunner led the way to the command center, gunning down every Flood form foolish enough to cross his path. The Spartans and Sangheili could see why he had risen to the top of his rate and earned the respect of the Chief – he was efficient as a leader and as a warrior. Their team – designated "Alpha Team" by Etra, who had taken over for Astar – was the first to reach the command center-

-where the proto-Gravemind had taken up residence. Its guard of combat forms leapt at them, hissing and screeching at pitches that could have shattered glass. The team scattered, Fred lobbing a frag grenade into the flood's midst. Half of them turned into flying alien animal body parts. The other half charged them again, slashing at their shields with bone claws.

The Chief caught one such slash on his shielded forearm. He slammed his opposite foot down on the former great cat's other paw, making it scream in pain and try to withdraw. Then he drew his combat knife. The infection pod in its chest yielded to the hard light edge with ease, sending Flood guts gushing over his hand. He threw the limp corpse away, crushing another smaller combat form under its weight.

The Spartan shook the fluids from his arm, looking around for more targets. The Sangheili had gone toe-to-toe with the infected equivalent of a liger and torn it apart. They were now doing the same to another one, roaring, their plasma swords cleaving through flesh and bone with no resistance whatsoever. His Spartan brothers had finished off the other combat forms and had taken up squishing or shooting the infection pods as they swarmed through the room. The Didact was also done with his opponents. Now he stood before the Gravemind, examining it behind his visor. The Promethean turned to look at him when he called his name, standing back out of the way when John gestured. The Spartan darted forward, jammed two pulse grenades into the Flood's flesh, and then backpedaled as fast as he could. It got him out of the blast range in time, but when the bunching of corpses exploded from the inside, it covered him in a thick layer of Flood guts and slime. "Not. A word."

The Didact turned his head away. He was notorious among the Forerunners for not having his emotions on display. John resisted the urge to give him a good kick. Instead, he turned to the main displays. [Anything?]

'We have locked the ship down, Commander,' Etra assessed, 'Rudimentary at best, but it's taking everything we've got just to keep what's left of the Gravemind contained inside the ship, the slippery bastard. Looks like you're going to have to do the heavy lifting.'

"Commander?"

John's eyes opened, only then realizing that he had tensed up. There was a reason why he never "dove in" in a combat zone. The other Spartans had noticed his concern – the equivalent of a total flip out for one of them – and gathered around him, mirroring his worry. He didn't need to see their faces to know that – alternate universe or no, they were his family, and he knew them as well as he knew himself. "The enemy's still in the system," he said, "I'm going to have to stop him the hard way. I need complete cover to do so."

Fred took command from there. The Spartans fanned out across the room, covering every entrance. With the Didact personally guarding him and the other Spartans watching his back, the Command stepped up to one of the control panels, laying one hand on an input sensor and the other on an output.

He was instantly swamped by information. His mind rendered it as a flashing, angry sea of Forerunner symbols. His shields went up. His infected helped him to filter the information, the "sea"-level lowering until the last of it trickled away.

The Spartan was "standing" on a "street" made of glowing green Forerunner symbols, like in the Matrix. The buildings around him were also made of the same green data streams, representing the specialized systems in the _Approach_. The Chief lifted his hands, a nasty virus in the form of a suppressor appearing in his grasp. Together, he and his Infected began systematically clearing out the "buildings" one by one, stripping down any "subroutines" the proto-Gravemind left behind. For one brief instant, John's instincts made a push to escape his control, appearing in the rendered programming of the Didact's ship. John grabbed it by its shoulders and slammed his armored knee into its gut, stunning it and making it choke. That was enough of a lapse for him to force it back into its cage, where it raged and screamed at him.

What little of the proto-Gravemind still existed fled before their advance, continuously changing the systems it was hiding in until they trapped it in navigation. John and a few of his top close-range fighters slipped in and sealed the system behind them. Each armed with a different virus for a weapon, they began to search the "room."

The room itself reminded the Spartan of the times when he and his followers had mapped out the Flood's advance on a three-dimensional hologram of the galaxy. All of the known solar systems were there, about the size of an average human's palm, with a navigational grid overlaying the whole thing. It was like he was a giant, walking through space.

A malformed tentacle lashed out of the darkness of the map room. A hard light combat knife – another virus – rendered itself in the Chief's hand. He pinned the tentacle down while Ursoen fired into the darkness toward the tentacle's point of origin. There was a squeal of pain, but the proto-Gravemind did not stop trying to free itself.

With the speed of a thought, the warriors drew their hard light swords and hacked the Gravemind apart.

* * *

John opened his eyes to find that three hours had passed. The majority of the assault team had made it to the bridge. The rest were out scouring the ship with an army of Knights and Crawlers, eliminating the last of the Flood resistance onboard. The footholds it still had on the surface could be dealt with easily once the _Approach_ was away. Cortana and Hrívë had returned, their mission a success, as the Promethean's ship lifted off at the Spartan's direction. As the gates closed behind the ship, the _Fleet_ moved into position and began grid-glassing the infected areas. That was the only reason John had had his ships outfitted with "inferior" Covenant weapons – the directed plasma streams were very effective against localized Flood infestations.

The Didact and a contingent of awed Sangheili went to retrieve his Cryptum. John set the _Approach_ into a geosynchronous orbit with easy access for the Forerunner, then bolted for the _MoonBlade_, locking down any information outlets that were not relayed through the Infected.

The ship had some new cargo.

The Spartan touched the side of the machine, eyelids drooping partway as he tuned in to the low hum of its systems, only now disturbed after a hundred thousand years of nothing. It felt happy to have companionship. He patted its side. [Don't let the Didact know we have it,] he commanded, voice quiet but brooking no argument, [Let him think the Librarian destroyed it.]

'Yes, sir.'

Cortana stepped up next to him. He smiled faintly at her, and pulled her into an embrace with his free arm.

And the Composer hummed away serenely before them. All of the Infected shuddered to think of what the Didact – or worse, ONI – would do now if they got ahold of the ancient machine. It had to be kept away, far away from all of them, but they knew of no safer place than with them, where it would always be under guard.

'Spartan.'

[Didact.] The warrior immediately blocked out his knowledge of the Composer, pretending he was quieting the voices of his Infected so he could focus his complete attention on the Promethean.

'Has your _veri_ brought news? The good kind, I trust.'

[Indeed she has.] He gave the AI a gentle squeeze. Cortana _had_ gathered the necessary data from the Halo Array while Hrívë focused on extracting the Composer. [This ship was the only one to escape. Thank the Goddesses it crashed here, where we could detect it. Otherwise it would have been the human- and Forerunner-Flood Wars all over again, and we would have been cosmically screwed.]

'I notice you seem more amiable toward our religion-that-is-not. What changed?'

[Well, you see, what happened was…]

* * *

[…and then we detected the Flood and came here.]

'That certainly explains a lot.' John watched from a distance as the _Approach_ opened up to admit the Didact's Cryptum. It was impossible to tell what exactly the Forerunner would do when he was in full control of his ship once more. He seemed to be tolerating the presence of the humans – for now. To protect against any potential attacks, the warrior had arranged for the _Dawn_, _Infinity_, and _Shadow of Intent_ to do hard docks with the _Fleet_ so that the warriors who had gone to ground could simply walk back onto their respective ships via bridges of hard light between the hangars. The much larger – and much more heavily shielded – Forerunner ships were serving as physical barriers between all of them and the Didact in case of emergency.

'Slipspace rupture detected in Requiem's airspace!'

[Assessment.]

'It's the Forerunners, sir! The ones who left – they've returned!'

* * *

A/N: And that's where this chapter is stopping. If I let it go on anymore, it would wind up being twice as long. If the chapter as it is now is tl;dr, here's a summary – the first part of _HALO 4_ without the Didact killing everyone.

Dear anonymous reviewer "So," if it makes you happy, I'll post the originals as a bonus chapter at the end of this monster. It may wind up being a bit of a long wait. Or, I can make a separate "story" just for those originals. I don't know why you want to read them, though. I think they sucked.

TAKE NOTE OF THE POLL ON MY PAGE! I am going to begin editing/rewriting _Two Corpses_ soon, so I want to know your opinion: should I rewrite it so that Darius-116 (aka the Chief's half-brother) carries Cortana, or leave her with Fred-104? Vote or leave a review with your selection! Thank you. *bows*


	12. Eleven: The Treaty

A/N: To "So / La:" I love _The Sound of Music_. Your first line made me laugh so hard after a horrible day at work. Thank you. As to why I rewrote the Forerunner Arc to be a bit more serious, it's because even though there was plenty of "time" for the Chief and his minions to mellow out a bit, the Forerunner-Flood War was almost on top of them, and at least according to Greg Bear's books, the Forerunners tended to be a very serious people. Since they outnumber every other species on the _FoS_ at least 2:1, I tried to let their society do most of the talking. What I'm trying to show is how their interactions with the ever changing human society relaxed them a bit and made them into the bunch of crazies we all know and love from _Two Corpses_. (And I thought the first chapters sucked, but that point was secondary to the above.) In this chapter though (which is also an interlude), we get to see a bit more of the aforementioned crazies.

* * *

Eleven: The Treaty

* * *

"Okay, something is seriously wrong with the Ur-Didact."

The Forerunners who had returned from their magical extra-galactic adventures had been quickly brought up to speed on everything they had missed. The leaders of the ecumene had decided that the time was ripe for another attempt at a peaceful meeting between humans and Forerunners (with the Infected there to mediate any disagreements, of course). Representatives from all governments directly or indirectly involved met up on the glassed world of Eridanus II, the birthplace of the Chief and his half-brother, to discuss the possibility of a formal treaty before the Galactic Council forced the matter.

"_What makes you say that?"_

"Because he _hates_ humanity. He's _notorious_ for it. The Bornstellar Didact is more ambivalent – that's why he's heading up the negotiations and not his higher-ranked mutation mentor." John eyed the Promethean suspiciously from his place in the crowd of Infected. The Flood nation was serving as a physical barrier between the "bodyguards" from both sides, to make it that much harder for them to kill one another if things went south. "Either he's plotting something," he continued, "and this is part of it, or he's a few teacups short of a full set right now. I wonder if the twins put something in his food again?"

'It wasn't us this time!'

[Don't drug the soup, then. We're having clam chowder for dinner.]

'So the crackers are fair game?'

The Chief snorted and shook his head. He sensed a few of the Spartans smile, just a little, behind their visors. The rogue had arranged for modified receivers to be integrated into their Forerunner armor, so they could "hear" the Infected speaking mind-to-mind and contact them if necessary. That didn't stop them from "hearing" the day-to-day stuff, too.

"'_Again?'"_ asked Fred over their TEAMCOM, _"They've done this before?"_

'We said it wasn't us this time!'

"Once," was the response, "to test his resilience to sodium pentathol, aka 'truth serum.'"

"_And?"_

"He sang like a songbird."

'Did you know that the sounds of nature – birds chirping, crickets singing, and the like – are the sounds of animals desperately trying to get laid?'

John rolled his eyes this time, but let them have their fun. They weren't being disruptive, so there was no reason to stop them. With the exception of their time on-station for the Halo Campaign and constant guard around Earth, the Infected had spent most of their time as "runners" – ferrying supplies and people between allied worlds. Their ships had been specifically designed to be both heavily armed and fast, so that they could respond virtually instantly to Flood assaults – and form the fastest transportation network in the galaxy. They also bought and sold information; like AI, Graveminds lived and breathed on new intel, and the Chief was no different. Their instinctive desire to _:know all be all:_ provoked some interesting theories about the Flood's origin and spawned some of the best intrusion/counterintrusion minds and software in the galaxy, the latter of which had been lovingly grafted onto all of the _FoS_ ancilla and Cortana.

Long story short, they were used to keeping busy, much like the Spartans. And now they were bored. They were half-hoping the Insurrectionists from Eridanus Secundus would try something just to spite the UNSC or the P'Vort would make a strike to take out the leaders of both sides, despite the fact that there were seventy-five Spartans, a small army of marines, an armada of Flood, and several divisions' worth of Warrior-Servants on hand to prevent just such assaults.

Said fighting forces were running patrols all over the planet, though most of them were actually guarding the negotiation site in the former capital. John and the Infected had used the opportunity to introduce the Spartans and Warrior-Servants, as well as the Arbiter, who was there as a representative for the fledgling Sangheili government.

"So long as the Didact stays on whatever he's on, there shouldn't be any outbreaks of fighting. It's not like we're negotiating with the Jiralhanae."

"_I could __not__ imagine…"_ Kelly muttered as she jogged back in from her patrol. She had gone out with Ursoen, his wife Thenma, and an uninfected Warrior-Servant by the name of Elen Heru, "Star Master."

[Just thinking about it is giving me a headache – no offense, Acacius.] John broke away from the main group to start his patrol, pinging the warriors he wanted to come with him.

"_None taken, Commander."_

"…_Was that a __Brute__?"_ Linda demanded over the channel.

[Maybe.]

Silence. Then, _"What did you __do__?!"_

[There have been a shitton of orphans on both sides of the Human-Covenant War and the Schism, so we've kind of adopted a lot of them. Mostly human and Sangheili children, but there are a handful of Unggoy, a few Kig-Yar chicks, and Acacius and his brother Ianus.]

"_Pleasure to meet you_."

[We were not intentionally keeping them from you. And _don't_ give us that look. We haven't gotten to the part where we start taking them in in the history lesson. We've adopted and raised orphans from every major species that we're in contact with, including some Manipulars from after the Forerunner-Flood War. And no, it wasn't my idea.]

"…_So how many kids are we talking?"_

[Not that many. A few hundred?]

'Two hundred and thirty-three at the moment.'

[Thank you, Nep'Thalia.] A moment of quiet. [I said don't give us that look!]

"_Yes, Commander."_

* * *

"One more thing, Hood-cavo, if you have a moment."

The Admiral paused his return to his Pelican to allow the Bornstellar Didact to step up next to him. The preliminary negotiations had closed successfully, so both sides were taking a recess before getting into the nitty gritty stuff later. "I have several," he said to the Forerunner, "What can I help you with?"

"What does the UNSC intend to do about Lady Cortana?" the Warrior-Servant asked him, shifting aside to allow a diplomat to pass, who nodded her thanks.

The moment the Didact finished speaking, Hood became acutely aware of the attention the loaded question had drawn. The nearby Infected were watching them both closely, waiting for an answer. He was going to have to speak _veeeeery_ carefully, lest he inadvertently anger them. "Personally," he said slowly, feeling out every sentence in his head before he voiced it, "I am entirely willing to turn her completely over to the _Fleet of Shadows_. She came from the – er, 'Origin' – and to the Origin she should return. In addition, the presence of the Supreme Commander seems to be a stabilizing influence on her. However, I worry that the rest of HIGHCOM might not be so open."

Isrillis, one of the _FoS_ squad leaders, tilted his head, eyes sliding out of focus as he listened to something they could not hear. Then he stepped forward. "Would the UNSC HIGHCOM be willing to trade for her?"

"'Trade?'"

"An AI for an AI," the infected Warrior-Servant clarified, "Lady Cortana for one of our ancilla."

"I'll discuss the possibility with them."

Isrillis nodded and stepped back amongst the other Flood. Hood mentally sighed in relief.

'Now if only we could con everyone like that…'

[Don't even think about it.]

'Commander, the hooligan children want their bedtime story.'

[I'll be there in a minute.] He watched the _FireRain_ grow larger outside the window of the Forerunner dropship.

"Commander!"

Whunk.

There was nothing quite like getting tackled by children to forever strip someone of masculinity and superiority. The moment the Spartan stepped off his transport and back onto the deck of the _FireRain_, a wave of children swarmed him and pulled him off his feet in a very Flood-like manner.

"(Commander!)" snapped young Ruka 'Saros in her native tongue, "(You promised you'd be the one to tell us a bedtime story!)"

"Yeah!" Ruka's best friend popped up next to her. John could only see Carlos in his peripheral vision because Ruka was all up in his face.

[Oh, woe is me. Gone are the days when the mere mention of me was enough to strike fear into the hearts of men and aliens alike.]

'Poor Commander's ego,' sneered his sarcastic 2IC, 'Want me to kiss it, make it better?'

[Do NOT make me come over there.]

'Bornstellar would like to speak with you when you've got a moment.'

[…way to change the subject.] John pushed himself to his feet. The gaggle of children flowed off of him, though Ruka and Carlos still hung on to his shoulders. [What does he want?]

'The ecumene has a gift for us, apparently. Payment for helping them bust that smuggling ring that was causing the Galactic Council so much trouble a thousand years ago.'

[I remember those pricks. So what are we getting?]

'We don't know yet. It's a closed system; we can't get access to it. But whatever it is, it's _big_.'

[Huh. Well, thanks for the inspiration in any case. I don't think the younglings have heard that story.] John opened the lock to one of the oxygen gardens and led the children to an open patch of grass across a short bridge. A few of the Mav'Alt had "planted" themselves nearby to "eat" – that is, turn water and excess carbon dioxide into oxygen for the rest of the _Fleet_ and sugar for themselves. [Shusha, you look like the Sudowoodo sprite animation from the _Pokémon_ games.]

The Mav'Alt rustled its leaves, their people's equivalent of a snicker, and continued wiggling back and forth.

* * *

"Cortana."

The AI looked up from her console. John stood before her with another Forerunner, keen eyes assessing her emotional state. She felt a surge of anger – 'I'm not a child that needs constant supervision!' – superiority – 'They are right to fear me! I could seize control of their ships and kill them with but a thought! – and sorrow – 'They're right to tread carefully around me; I'm not safe.'

The Spartan's spiderweb of emotional restraint coding strangled the feelings before they could be acted on, instilling a feeling of calm in her systems. "Yes?" she asked.

"Do you want to become organic?" he questioned, straight to the point.

For a beat, she didn't know what to say. Become organic? Flesh and blood? How would they go about that? She had thought about clones before, but then she wouldn't be able to interface with electronic systems as she had before. She would be a liability until she adjusted to a biological form, helpless until she learned to defend herself.

But on the other hand, the technological frame she had now was still limited in its senses. She could see and hear and move of her own will, interact with her environment, but she couldn't truly smell or taste or even touch. Her systems automatically pinged the Infected for sensor ghosts and fed them into her processors. No matter how real, they weren't her own sensations – they had been filtered through someone else's perception first and frayed by time.

John was patiently waiting for her answer.

"How," she asked hesitantly, "how would it be done, if I said yes?"

"We – that is, the Flood – can interface directly with various forms of machinery, as you discovered during your tenure with the Gravemind." Both of them flinched subtly at the reminder, then moved on. "Even the Forerunners still aren't entirely sure how we do this – they think it's a variation on telepathy, but it's like the brain: we don't know exactly how it works, just that it does.

"But you are a resident of the systems we interact with, so it's possible for us to _:pull:_ you into our flesh and give you your own 'combat form-'" He made air quotes. "-to animate. We've been doing some experimenting with Fenix. Since it's been working, we've decided to put the offer to the other smart AI of the _Fleet_."

She caught on quickly. "And because you can pull me in, it makes sense that I could jump back out if I had to."

"Exactly." John gestured for the Forerunner with him to step forward. Cortana realized with a burst of shock that it was Fenix, the _Fleet_'s gruff primary battle ancilla. Her sensors had registered a biological rather than technological form, so she hadn't recognized him right away.

False tears stung her eyes, the prickling fed to her from Venera's memory. 'So close… So close!' "Y-you…" She paused, swallowed the lump in her throat (Harena). "You haven't had any problems?" she asked the other AI.

"None yet," he rumbled, "though it is a little overwhelming at first."

She nodded in understanding. "Okay. I'll do it."

* * *

Being inside the Chief's armor and interfacing with his mind was one thing. Being inside his mind and interfacing with his armor was another thing entirely. There was so much more information available to her, along with the background murmurs of his Infected. Most of her processors were focused on the data she was receiving from his senses.

It was so different and yet entirely the same as being in the synth body the _Fleet_ had constructed for her. Everything was so much more vivid and immediate and _:real:_, though at the expense of precision. The AI could feel the vibrations of the ship's engines through the Spartan's feet, but she couldn't calculate how fast they were moving in orbit (though she could easily ping the ship itself to find out). She could feel the faint increase in pressure from the Spartan's armor as he inhaled, taste and smell the _Fleet._ For all that they were undead parasites, the Infected actually had a somewhat pleasant smell.

'Can I be a little taller this time?' she asked, ravenously devouring the information he was feeding her. He was shaping her organic form before their eyes. Though crude and hideous to watch, the formation of a personalized combat form was fascinating. The Spartan had gathered all manner of other Flood forms and masses and was tearing them apart and piecing them together to achieve the desired shape.

[If that's what you want,] John replied, pausing to shake bloody muscle tissue off his hand before reaching for a still somewhat muscled spinal cord, [How much taller?]

'I would like to be 5'10", 1.78 meters. That is the average height for a woman now.'

[Certainly.] He waved one of the combat forms away and grabbed another, yanking a leg out of its socket. [Any other requests?]

'Bigger cup size?' The Commander stopped what he was doing. The AI got the impression that he had turned to stare at her. 'What?'

[… nothing larger than an 80E on the international standard, okay? Any bigger, and they'll interfere with your ability to adequately defend yourself when we come under attack. And lord knows with what we've got planned and what's coming our way anyway, everyone's going to be seeing action.]

'That's fine. I was just messing with you.' She giggled when he let out an exasperated "fff" noise. 'But thank you for worrying about me.'

[I always worry for you, _melda_.]

* * *

"I do believe that is everything we came to negotiate on." Bornstellar slid up out of his seat. "We can declare this the formal end of negotiations, unless someone else has something to add…?"

"I do," said one of the representatives of the mostly-defunct UEG, "What of the Insurrectionists? What is their status with regards to the treaty?"

The Forerunner thought for a moment. "Perhaps we should simply attribute the actions to the black sheep themselves, rather than their parent species." Bornstellar shot a glance at the Ur-Didact, who was still staring off into space. "It certainly seems to have worked well enough for us."

John leaned on his palm, eyes narrowed but lips twitching up into a half smirk. "So _you're_ the one who drugged him."

The Forerunner drew himself into a stately pose. "Perhaps," he said simply.

'We TOLD you it wasn't us!'

[And now I believe you.]

Hood and Bornstellar bowed to one another, signaling the formal close of the treaty. The finalized contracts would be written up and signed at a later date. John pushed off of the table and jogged after the Forerunner and his entourage, one of whom was leading the stoned Ur-Didact by the hand. "What about the Galactic Council?"

The secondary Didact shot him a raised optic ridge as he fell in next to him. "What about it?"

"All member species are required to declare treaties to the Board," he said, "Lucky for you, two of us are already here, but the others will want to know. And with that comes a whole slew of paperwork." He scowled darkly.

"Why haven't you declared one, then?"

"Don't have one yet." John smirked cheekily, and dodged a cuff from the Forerunner. "We simply have an unwritten ceasefire." Then he frowned again. "Humanity isn't ready to be introduced to the rest of the galaxy yet. The Sangheili, either. They both have only just begun to recover from the war, so any foreign markets intruding could cause their already-fragile governments to crash when home production does. There's still a lot of bad blood between them, too." Their gazes met. "How long do you think we can afford to give the other Board members the runaround before they issue an official sanction?"

The Forerunners put their heads together. "Not long enough," was the final consensus, "We were forced to declare our return to our holdings. The history between our peoples isn't exactly a secret, so _someone_'s eventually going to push for full reconciliation. When they discover that a treaty's already in place and we didn't tell anyone…"

Another imperious frown. "Can we get it sealed?"

"Even together, the two of us don't have that kind of power. We'd need at least three other members."

"The Gultanr would help, and _maybe_ the Adonte, but the others…" He clenched a fist. Then the Spartan blinked, eyebrows sliding up, before his expression morphed into one of amusement and secretiveness. "But we don't have to do it _legally_… What's the point of having the best intrusion software in the galaxy if you don't use it?"

'At last, a challenge!' Venera crowed.

'Inserting treaty records and concealing them until it's safe to reveal them and open trade – sounds like fun,' followed her twin, 'Lady Cortana, would you like to do the honors?'

'It would be my pleasure.'

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know, hooligan children. The _Fleet_ needs to grow somehow, and the orphans that became the SIII's needed to go somewhere, so I thought, 'Why not kill two birds with one stone?' Only then a part of me said, 'But what if they don't want to be a part of the _FoS_? I mean, the Infected are _dead_. They can't have kids, and they're a parasitic life form that feeds on the souls of the living (ok, not really, but you know what I mean). Do they really want to become a part of that?' So I thought the Lifeworkers of the fleet would simply want to be good Samaritans and raise the children to be upstanding and capable members of society. And _then_ I finished reading _The Thursday War_ and I was like 'Poor Dural, he just lost his mom and dad in one go. There have to be more like him. Double-edged swords cut both ways.' And then the number of kids grew to include the other Covenant species, taught so that they can help their people recover after the collapse of the aforementioned theocracy.

And if anyone's wondering why little Carlos can understand Sangheili, the members of the _Fleet_ know all the languages of those they infect/interact with, so they taught some of them to the children.


	13. Twelve: Aftermath

A/N: ANFDOHFLSANFD SILENTIUM DSKLJFAOANCVLX THIS REAL!CANON IS PLAYING RIGHT INTO MY HEAD!CANON JAOKSDJLAFD! Sorry this chapter took so long; school and work have been eating up all my spare time. Also, it's a short chapter, but we are _finally_ wrapping up the Forerunner era. The next chapter will be the first of the Earth chapters. However, in order to keep this fic from becoming a million chapters long, I'm going to cut down on the number of places the Infected will be in history – probably just major historical milestones for us and developmental milestones for them. Also, is it weird that I have the end of this fic and the beginning of the next one already written?

* * *

Twelve: Aftermath

* * *

It was peaceful in the wake of so much death. Quiet, still. Even the animals brought aboard the Ark kept their calls to a minimum. The Infected communicated without words as they began organizing the survivors by species.

Most were children.

The Commander walked slowly along a terrace overlooking a garden in the _FireRain_. A group of his Infected were moving through the Gultanr survivors below, taking names, family lines, and planets of origin and giving out food, water, and the equivalent of blankets. Some were moved to be with still living family if they had been separated, but most were alone. They had been put on the evac ships by their parents and sent away to live while said parents stayed behind to die.

'The ecumene,' he thought to himself, 'the once-great Forerunner Empire, given dominion over all the galaxy by the Precursors who came before them. The UEG was better off than the Forerunner Empire is now – and after the Human-Covenant War, at that.' The Spartan descended to the lowest level of the garden and walked amongst the precognitive dragons the way the Librarian often did.

The aliens acknowledged him in their own way as he conferred with his subordinates. [What do you think?] he asked, [How long will it take for the galaxy to recover?]

'Forever.'

'What our ever-realistically depressing in-law means,' said Venera, shooting a mental glare at Nep'Thalia, 'is that physically it will take time. Lots of time, varying amounts depending on the places and people involved. Mentally…'

[Mentally, there is no recovery from a loss of this magnitude.] The Spartan sighed heavily, dropping his gaze. A small Gultanr looked up at him, clutching the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and holding tight to a well-worn plush of a cat. He dropped to one knee next to her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

**food**

He bit back the impulse to strike when she leaned into the embrace he offered. She couldn't have been more than the equivalent of four or five, at most six; old enough to know that something _terrible_ had happened but not to truly understand that everyone she knew was gone.

It reminded him uncomfortably of the S-II program. None of them had been old enough to understand that they could never see their parents again, no matter how mature Dr. Halsey believed them to be.

But the Gultanr were not human children. They understood better than most, had sensed the horrors to come, and fled in the face of them until there was nowhere left to run. "Are you our new parents?" the young dragon asked in her native tongue, voice high and soft.

After a moment, the Gravemind said, "Yes. I suppose we are."

* * *

The first ships that were sent back into the Milky Way were entirely automated. The ancilla running them were the Foreunner equivalent of dumb AI, with very limited capacity for extrapolation, in hopes that they could evade the "logic bomb" poisoning of the Gravemind in the event it survived (unlikely, but one does not _not _plan for such an eventuality). They had been given strict instructions to simply observe, not make contact, and if any other than the residents of the Arks attempted to contact them, they were to refused the connection and depart immediately.

The Infected need not have worried. The Halos had done their jobs well – only plant life remained in the galaxy.

The ships brought back images of their great cities. Some were in ruins from Flood assaults. Some were perfectly untouched. All were empty, and silent as the grave, but at least the refugees had somewhere to go back to.

When the Arks began their preprogrammed reseeding of the galaxy, the survivors went with the drone-piloted ships. Very few of the species were in any state to begin any kind of reconstruction, and those who were, were the ones who still had some sort of chain of command intact. Some of the Galactic Councilors had survived, and took up the responsibilities that had died with the Forerunner Builder Council in the Capital Complex.

The Chief listened to them squabble over the comm channels even as he sat in a three-way deadlock between himself, the Ur-Didact, and the IsoDidact. Both the other Forerunners were glaring at one another without really glaring, trying to be subtle. It was clear that they had had a falling-out of sorts, but neither volunteered any information.

His eyes narrowed, prickling as if with tears as the pigmentation pulled back to reveal the red of blood underneath. "One of you," he growled, "Explain. _Now_. Or I'm throwing _both_ of you out an airlock."

The Ur-Didact pursed his lips around his small tusks. "I needed more Knights," he said at last, "to launch an offensive and buy time. So-"

"You think that is a valid excuse?!" the IsoDidact interrupted, on his feet, "You Composed three quarters of the remaining humans! All but a handful of variations are gone! Our wife-"

"I did what had to be done!" the original snarled back, also rising to his feet, "If I had not-!"

"The _Fleet_ was two minutes out," said John, folding his arms, containing the burn of anger in his gut, "We could have diverted for support, would have done it and been happy to do so."

"We didn't _have_ two minutes-"

"You," the Spartan hissed, slamming his hands down on the table, "and I both know that that isn't entirely true." He stood up, inhaling deeply to keep himself calm. "History resists change. All of us know that. I assume that means this happened in the Origin, too, but that does _not_ mean I am okay with it under _any_ circumstances. Humanity is my home species, and I will not tolerate any more attacks on them. I might not go quite as far as my half-kin, but we've all seen how well it'll turn out even on a localized scale."

The hybrid saw the Ur-Didact's jaw clench. At last, he tilted his head in acknowledgement of his claim and threat, and relaxed his stance, backing down. Bornstellar, the IsoDidact, also yielded to the hybrid.

"Now is there any other business that absolutely cannot wait? We'll be completing this leg of the journey and dropping out of Slipspace at the galactic edge in less than an hour." When both of them shook their heads, he kicked them out of his office, mentally calling for some of his SpecOps Infected to keep an eye on them. [I don't want any Didacts killing each other on my ship.]

He sank back down into his chair, rubbing his temples. He heard the door hiss open in front of his second in command. "If you're here to chew me out for chewing _them_ out, it can wait."

**half kindred they stole our food from us**

Nep'Thalia sensed his conflict, and lent her aid in suppressing the _:hunger for vengeance:_. "Actually," she said calmly, "I was wondering if you wanted help with that."

John looked up at her in surprise. She had a steely look in her eye that reminded him all too well of the twins when their blood was up. "I thought that my home species was better than this," she answered his nonverbal question, "taking revenge for perceived wrongs that no longer matter. We devolved your people and made you aware of it happening, set you back to the Stone Age, and then killed off all but the Librarian's samples with the firing of the Halo Array. That is Entulessë enough for me." She shook her head. "I had not thought my uncle capable of such pettiness."

"I don't think any of us did." John ran his fingers through his hair, then made a face. He quirked an eyebrow in a silent question. The Forerunner smiled in affectionate amusement and waved him off.

* * *

It was times like these that the Chief didn't mind the fact that his commander's quarters were so luxurious, even by Forerunner standards. He scrubbed away the sweat and grime from his skin in the shower, then ran a bath hot enough to cook an ordinary human, climbing in to soak and sulk and think. The fleet needed a plan of attack. How were they going to go about reestablishing the entire galaxy? Humanity and the Covenant were starting over from literally nothing, so there wasn't much they needed to do there. With the rest…

It was a perfect time for a power grab.

John frowned. The longer the power vacuum left behind by the ecumene remained unfilled, the more likely it would be that someone – **us –** would step in and completely take over. There were not really many people capable of resisting right now, wracked with grief, and most of the survivors would have no idea where to even begin. They had never held a position of substantial power before, and more importantly about eighty percent of all the still-embodied species were under the age of majority.

**all the more reason for it to be us**

'This isn't the Insurrection,' he thought, letting out another sigh and imagining that the voices of his instincts went with it, 'We can't just take these kids and turn them into Spartans.' He reflexively braced himself against the side of the tub as the _Storm _transitioned out of Slipspace in a smooth glide. 'How the hell are we supposed to raise them? Some of us have experience with children, but it's not exactly a one-size-fits-all-species kind of deal. And we certainly can't bring them up all together all the time – there has to be some kind of separation period where they can spend time only with their native species – ugh, I'm giving myself a migraine."

He let his head fall back against the side of the tub, stewing in his thoughts. Then he jerked, head cracking against the metal –

_Fire. Fire everywhere._

_He could feel its searing heat flaring over his skin, threatening to damage his body beyond what he had the capacity to repair. The flames licked at his heels as he darted between the houses outside the settlement's market. The weather was dry and hot – had been for months – and a few rogue sparks had set every wooden structure in range ablaze._

_And the Spartan himself was panicking in ways he never had before, way he thought had been trained out of him. His instincts were overriding every conscious thought he tried to make, filling him only with the urge to _:flee from death:_. He did exactly that, sprinting for the edge of town as other __**lesser**__ humans did the same, making for the open space that would slow the spread of the flames-_

He came out of the vision high on adrenaline, heart pounding. He felt blood dripping down the back of his neck as he darted from the tub with a splash, putting his back against a wall. His eyes darted around the room. The skin of his neck tingled and crawled as the gash there pulled itself closed and sealed up.

"Fire," he hissed, hunching in on himself, "fire, why is it always _fire?!_"

_I shall light this holy ring, release its cleansing flame and burn a path into the divine beyond_

* * *

"I temporarily split up the fleet after the assessment meeting that followed our arrival at the former Capital Complex world," said the Chief, stirring his soup with an absentminded look on his face, "That was the last leg of our journey – the jump from the galactic edge to the Capital. It was still mostly intact, so all of us settled there for a while, despite the objections of some of the more conservative Forerunners." He coughed, but it sounded suspiciously like "Didact." His facial expression didn't change from its half-sarcastic mirth, but his eyes grew sad. "The galaxy's population had dwindled to the point where every survivor could fit on that one world, and everyone – even us, the Infected – could have their own house."

The Spartans, Doctor Halsey, and a few ODSTs were all listening as they ate dinner in a private mess hall aboard the _Infinity_. They were heading back to Earth now that the negotiations were through, with the _Darkest Hour_ in tow. The rest of the _FoS_ were going with the Forerunners to the aforementioned Capital, primarily for restocking their supplies.

"After everyone was settled in," he continued, "we started scouting out home worlds one at a time, seeing for ourselves what we had to work with, with regards to reconstruction. The _Storm_ and the _Darkest Hour_ handled that – they're both Forerunner destroyers – while the others stayed at the Capital for data mining. The Halos… screwed a lot of it up. Forerunner ancilla are great and all-" He twined his fingers with Cortana's under the table. "-but after Mendicant Bias went batshit insane and the Gravemind logic-bombed the rest to hell, there weren't exactly a lot of smart AI to go through what was left of the Capital." Then the Spartan snorted. "Not that there _was_ much left, anyway. Most of the ecumene stored its data in the Domain, and so was almost entirely lost with its destruction. In fact, the most complete – if personalized, embellished, subjective – record of Forerunner history existed in our collective memories. It still is that way, actually, and it's still far from fully complete. Probably'll stay that way.

"Over time, we've been able to fill in some of the gaps, gather up bits and pieces of information that survived the collapse of the Domain. It was anchored to Precursor artifacts, which –" John paused, searching for the right word. "-dissolved… when they Halos fired. It was never explained to us, but something about the waves the rings put off broke the structures apart.

"But there still were – still are – some that survive. They are primarily in the Magellanic Clouds, though a few have been found in the intergalactic void. The last pieces of the Domain were anchored to them, carrying information from the Precursor era. Most of it we still don't understand."

"Was that why the Forerunners left?" asked Halsey as she made notes on her datapad, ignoring the _Inifinity_'s deceleration, "To get direct access to these artifacts?"

"Yes," was the reply, "When the Halos were fired, they started broadcasting some kind of distress signal that was – for lack of a better term – telepathic. We finally picked it up about twenty-five thousand years after the Great Cataclysm. Most Forerunners left then, though the Ur-Didact stayed behind, as you already know. He-" John frowned, and turned to stare off into space, a concerned look on his face.

The other Spartans moved their hands to their weapons. Was it another Flood incursion? An attack by the P'Vort or the Innies?

"What the fuck is he doing?" the Commander demanded out loud, pushing himself to his feet and leaving the mess hall. The Spartans looked at one another, then fell in behind him. They hadn't heard him swear often before; whatever it was must have been pretty severe. "More importantly, what the fuck is he _thinking?!"_

He was apparently receiving responses of some kind, because his eyes grew distant as he approached one of the auxiliary coms stations. He laid a hand over an input receiver, and after a moment, an image flickered to life on the screen. "What the fuck, Didact?" he demanded of the Forerunner on the other end.

"Ah, Spartan. I wondered when I would be hearing from you." The IsoDidact waved at a massive piece of machinery being transferred from his ship to the _Darkest Hour_, settling on grav clamps in the cargo bay until it could be properly moved into its housing. "Payment for the smugglers, and the Senior Councilors who were backing them."

"I knew they couldn't have caused so much trouble on their own." Then he shook his head. "Don't try to redirect me! Have you taken leave of your senses?!"

"My last psychological profile shows that I am well within acceptable deviations. For now."

John was not impressed. "What a ringing endorsement. I am filled with confidence. But seriously, you _can't_ just _give_ us a Halo gun, no matter how many _you_ have – we've already got-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what? A _Halo gun_?"

"The original twelve Halos," the hybrid explained, "were directed energy, not wide-field the way the current models are." He turned back to the IsoDidact. "One does not simply give a Halo gun to the Flood!"

Bornstellar gave the Spartan a grave look. "I trust you," he said firmly, and his tone left no doubts in anyone's mind that he meant it.

John sighed and leaned back slightly. He knew through long experience that there would be no arguing with him once he'd made up his mind. "I don't trust me, but it's nice to know that someone else does," he said, and then cut the connection.

* * *

Glossary  
Entulessë: literally "return" (noun); an archaic Forerunner version of weirguild, "an eye for an eye and a life for a life"


	14. Thirteen: Fire on Mystic Island

Thirteen: Fire on Mystic Island

* * *

'Should we stop them?'

[Are they actively hurting anyone?]

'…not from what we can see.'

[Then leave them be. After the Human-Covenant War started, ONI began researching past reports of extraterrestrials to see if our legends matched up with any Covenant species. They didn't, but we got briefed on them all the same in case we ran into some in the field. I think these are one of them.] John sized up the visitors that he could see in the video feed from the fleet.

The aliens in question appeared to be vaguely griffin-like, with the legs and tail of a cat seamlessly merging into a bird-like upper body. They didn't have wings exactly, but they did have feathers on their heads, shoulders, arms, and upper chests and backs.

'I think I remember them from somewhere. Didn't they use to be one of Carrier-of-Immunity's genetic hybridization experiments?'

'I think so. My, things have changed.'

[You can't honestly tell me you didn't expect that.] John grabbed the wrist of a would-be pickpocket, gave him a look, and then let him go, giving the boy a nudge. The young thief disappeared into the crowded marketplace, probably thinking that he could get away from the guards even though the Spartan had no intention of calling them. [If you don't change, you stagnate, and then something will come along that _has_ changed and kill you.]

'…how morbid.'

[I prefer the term "realistic."]

'Duly noted.'

The Spartan allowed himself a soft snort at Nep'Thalia's dry tone. The ever calm and collected Captain-Commander of the _Fleet of Shadows_ – no one could deny that she and her crazy relatives were a great asset to the Infected. Speaking of the twins…

[What_ are_ you doing?]

'Nuuuuthing.'

[Lies. Is someone going to die?]

'No.'

[Is there going to be property damage?]

'Not if we do it right.'

They blinked innocently at him. He narrowed his eyes. […Carry on.]

'Woohoo! Party time!'

The Chief gave them a look. [Don't get drunk. I don't care if you're off-duty.]

'But it's five o'clock somewhere!'

[Don't care. Don't do it. I do not need to be hearing _anyone's_ drunken mental rambling.]

'Aww…'

Instead of participating in their wild happy fun times, the Spartan moved to the outskirts of the town and signaled for Etra to teleport him back onto the _Storm_. He arrived on one of the observation decks, where a live-feed hologram of the Sol System was suspended in the center of the room. He acknowledged it with a tilt of his head, but made a beeline for the hard light tables and chairs next to the transparasteel plating.

Based on their estimates, it was 10 000 BCE on Earth. At least one of their ships had been holding position above one of the planet's poles for 90 000 years, since the firing of the Halo Array, since the Great Cataclysm. The Galactic Council had been well-established for the vast majority of that time and gained scores of new member-states since. But at his request, all of them kept out of human and Covenant space unless they were in full stealth mode. Some of the newer states had accused him of being paranoid, to which he responded, "I haven't lived this long by letting my guard down."

So much time had passed, but there was still so much more to go. He thought that this was probably what AI felt while waiting on an outside source – every second an age, every minute an epoch, every hour an eternity. John almost wished he could go into cryosleep so he didn't have to deal with the endless waiting. He had been incredibly patient so far, but even he had his limits.

Was this how those goddesses intended to make him forget himself? 'A tried and true interrogation technique – the waiting game. Take away all sense of time from the subject, then let them stew for a while,' he thought to himself, 'The twins should try it some time. But in our case, being aware of the passage of time and knowing there's nothing we can do to speed it up seems to be far, far worse.'

* * *

_One-one-seven-four-five-two-nine._

_What._

"_Move along, you beast!" A hand shoved him along despite his bulk. He kept moving, only looking up every once and a while to make sure that he was headed in the right direction. The sight of those four numbers inked into his arm alongside his own service number made his heart ache like nothing had in millennia._

**This is UNSC AL serial number CTN 0425-9. I am a monument to all your sins.**

_All of the prisoneers moved to stand in rows at the direction of the Nazi soldiers. John was toward the back, but his Flood-enhanced senses enabled him to easily hear what the officers were shouting._

_But all the while he could not bring himself to stop stroking the irritated skin of his forearm._

'-Commander!'

The Spartan tore himself from the vision when L'Toress cried his name. He smelled the choking heavy smoke and bolted out of bed before his mind had consciously processed the danger. He tripped, his hands caught his weight before he could hit the ground, and he scrambled for a second before getting his feet back under him.

The streets were filled with chaos when he finally made it out to the village square. Most of the homes were ablaze, making him flinch away. There were bandits on horses torching more homes, snatching up women and children, carrying off piles of goods. The guards were struggling to hold them off, and he would have stayed to help fight if it hadn't been for the fire.

Instinct sized control and demanded he run. He did, following the flow of people away from the village center. One of the rogues made the mistake of crossing his path as he fled, waving his sword around. The Spartan snapped the man's neck with diverting from his course, darting around the body as it fell.

**speed need speed faster FASTER**

The flames were spreading from the village to the surrounding brush. It had been incredibly dry lately, so the foliage surrounding the village had wilted into little more than kindling.

_shitshitshitshitshitshitshit_

A transport had been expressed-launched from the _Storm _to pick him up, the other Infected in the area evacuating as fast as they possibly could. There were only a handful of them, but they were close enough to be in danger of the wildfire.

Fire. Fire _everywhere_.

[_GODDAMMIT I AM KIND OF ATTATCHED TO THIS BODY_]

He skidded to an abrupt stop when a withered bush went up in flames at his one o'clock. The Spartan darted around it as fast as he could, in full-blown panic mode as he fought to get ahead. Unfortunately, the fire was winning.

**human form to unwieldy need lower center of gravity all fours for more speed**

_:a cheetah racing across the savannah, chasing an antelope and bringing it down with a well-placed attack:_

John splashed into a shallow pool, all that was left of a once-grand lake, depleted by both drought and consumption by the nearby village. Yet the water was enough to buy him time, time for his body to shudder and shake and contort into a new shape, muscles twisting and squelching and bones crunching and grinding as they were forced into a new configuration.

And then he raced away as an abnormally large cheetah, sorely hoping that the bandits burned to death in the fires they started.

The process had taken all of three minutes to do the first time, mimicking a local life form, yet so far it was taking two hours and counting to reverse, mostly because the biologists on the medical team were more curious about how he'd modified himself than fixing him. The Chief's tail flicked in mild irritation, watching as the scientists took readings and samples and babbled back and forth.

Nep'Thalia was standing next to the OR table he was lying on, a mix of amusement and exasperation visible on her face. That seemed to be her default expression whenever she was at his shoulder lately. He made a mental note to give her an extended vacation somewhere nice the second she could be spared.

'That will not be necessary, Commander, though I appreciate the thought.'

[Not necessary, my butt. You will _take_ a vacation and you will _like_ it. If the twins can get away with gallivanting down to India every other week without I & I collapsing about their pointy ears, I think you can afford to take some time off.]

'Then why don't you do the same, sir?'

[This _is_ a vacation for a Spartan.]

'Horsehockey.'

[I'm busy.]

'Hello, Pot. My name is Kettle. You're black.'

[You're not allowed to use that line! You don't even know what that's from!]

* * *

"Shapeshifting."

"Yep."

"How?"

"You remember the pure forms from Voi?"

A few Spartans visibly shuddered.

"A variation on that concept."

"That's… unpleasant."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

* * *

A/N: Just so you know, "I & I" stands for the Intelligence and Interrogation Division, sometimes shortened to "Intel & Inter." Also, sorry this chapter is so late. My laptop crashed and I lost almost everything on it, including this chapter and the next two, so I'm having to essentially rewrite them from scratch. But the good news is the last chapters for this story and the first few of the next one are done, so I might or might not spam-post them when we finally reach that point to make up for the horrendously slow updates.


	15. Fourteen: The Scout

Fourteen: The Scout

* * *

[Ah, vacation.]

'Sir, this does not qualify as a vacation.'

[It does in my book. Any day where I don't have to deal with desk work is a vacation.] John sniped the Promethean Knight that had been fluttering about at the edge of his range. The digital being exploded in a satisfying swirl of golden flakes. The Spartan wriggled backwards a little through the false foliage of the holodeck, then moved about ten meters to his left around a spur of rock. That brought another Knight into view, which quickly went the way of its predecessor. [Bliss.]

'If you say so. Just be advised, we picked up an unknown transmission earlier that's still being investigated.'

[And if any progress is made, I'll halt my War Games to deal with it as necessary.] He turned his head away for just a moment, checking up with the twins. They were personally investigating the transmission, because it wasn't one they recognized. There hadn't been many changes since he last checked in, so he returned to shooting Prometheans.

The Gultanr had sensed that there was something coming some weeks ago, putting everyone on edge as they waited for that something's arrival. Some of the Infected had taken over one of the main byways through the _Darkest Hour_ and turned it into a Flood hive, complete with growths on the walls and stumbling combat forms – their form of "battening down the hatches."

John growled and signaled for Fenix to terminate the simulation. The Prometheans and the battlefield dissolved around him, leaving him free to depart. He felt too restless to fight with a clear head, which could have gotten him seriously hurt.

'Slipspace disturbance detected.'

[How big?]

'Large enough to be at least one ship.'

[But it's not one of ours.]

'No, sir. It doesn't match any known signatures.'

[Etra, Úvë, swing around to face the estimated exit zone.]

'Aye, Commander.'

[Fenix, weapons hot.]

'Charging them now.'

Just as the _Storm_ and the _Into the Night_ settled into their new positions, an alien ship transitioned back into realspace with a slightly purple shimmer of light.

And it was _definitely_ NOT one of theirs. It was all slippery organic curves rather than the Forerunners' mathematical angles and lines. Yet despite their differences, Slipspace reconciliation appeared to be universal – the ship was temporarily dead in space, hissing with silvery energy.

[Úvë, scan with everything we've got.]

'On it.'

The results streamed in. This was undoubtedly the ship that had triggered their warnings, but it was nice to have it confirmed at last. Their sensors registered a number of different life forms onboard. They also detected the ship's power returning, warning lights flashing on along its length.

John found himself taking a step back, assuming a defensive stance with his fists protecting his face. Though his instincts said there was no danger – not like with the fire some weeks ago – he could feel that something was horribly wrong about the alien ship. He wanted it away from his home planet, wanted it destroyed, stripped down and dismantled at the atomic level.

A mind touched his own, groping about with extended claws. It was twisted, warped with sickness, distorted in ways that made the Spartan's bile rise. He retched; he had been trained to handle the horrors of war, but nothing like this. He withdrew from the connection with violent disgust, raising his mental shields to block out the corrupted influence.

"Fire all weapons!" he coughed, fighting the urge to writhe in revulsion. He recognized the way the mind he had been fractured and put back together – it was akin to what the enemy Gravemind did to its victims, the logic bomb virus, but from without rather than within. [Oh, Gods, the Didact!] The Promethean had come up against a Gravemind and come away with less pronounced damage, mere twitches compared to these gaping wounds. Had it contributed to his madness?

A single hard-light torpedo took down the alien ship's shields, but a handful more glanced off the organic curves of the ship.

[Laser-]

Etra switched the firing method on the turrets, while Fenix began working on a firing solution. But the alien ship was already counterattacking; one of the AI detonated the emergency thrusters to evade a shot that would have torn the ship apart. The missile tried to swing back around, but the momentum brought it too close to the sun. It fell into the star's gravity well and was lost.

The _Night_'s lasers finished charging first, and lanced across the space between the vessels, blasting off parts of the other ship's armor and tearing holes in the hull. The _Storm_'s weapons fired right into the gaps the _Night_'s shots left behind, taking out parts of the superstructure. It also crippled part of the ship – the weapons and thrusters on the starboard side went dark. The enemy vessel swung around and brought all of its port weapons to bear on them.

The _Fleet_'s AIs were already dropping the charge on their weapons, redlining the reactors and routing all power to their shields. They held, but only just.

The _Darkest Hour_ accelerated into a slingshot around the moon, then fired its own lasers at the hole in the hull. The shot gutted the ship, and destroyed the reactor, causing a massive detonation.

_:just dust and echoes… we're all that's left:_

* * *

The Infected waited for the solar wind to blow away much of the leftover radiation before sweeping the debris field. As expected, there were no survivors, but some of the systems at the front of the ship had survived with minimal damage. R&D was zealous but not crazy, and set up labs out in the debris field and did all their testing outside the ships before they even thought about asking to bring pieces onboard.

"The hull material," Lautrec reported, some weeks after the ship's arrival, "is structurally similar to our own, designed to minimize damage, to give and distribute force without breaking. But it's got flaws in it, as we saw. The material itself is synthetic, but the ship was put together by hand, which is where the flaws are."

"_By hand?"_ Elenasto sounded as shocked as the rest of them felt, "That ship was built _by hand?_ That's incredibly inefficient."

"Indeed. Despite the blast, when we took the remains apart, we were able to scan and index almost one thousand whole prints, and four times as many partials, some of which were matched to the wholes. Etra, if you please…" The AI pulled up the data as the Engineer continued, "There appear to have been at least thirty distinct species involved in the construction of the ship, some of which seem to be specialized. For example, this one has only been seen on circuitry."

"Is that a tentacle print?"

"Yes. We believe it might be a race similar to the Huragok."

John leaned back in his chair, looking over the scans. "Is there anything we know for sure?"

The Forerunner paused, then said, "You were right to strike first, Commander. They did _not_ come in peace."

* * *

The fleet was on guard for a number of weeks after that. Lautrec submitted his full report of the incident to the Galactic Council. Apparently, the remains of the ecumene had also encountered such a ship, but they had actually exchanged transmissions. The gist of those exchanges was that the alien attackers were the slaver version of the Covenant. Their unknown god had sent them to the Milky Way to take it.

John was recalled to the capital as a representative of his fleet and sat in the amphitheater in his dress armor, listening to politicians argue. Once they had learned that the fleet's shields had held against a single blast form the enemy's weapons, albeit barely, the vast majority of them were all for making more of their shield generators. The Spartan decided to let them, after he learned that when the Forerunners engaged the enemy, three of their vessels had been destroyed by a single shot.

He demanded under no uncertain terms that military vessels be outfitted with the new shields before any civilian craft, on the grounds that the military couldn't do a very good job of protecting civilians if they got destroyed right off the bat.

"I find it odd," he said as he left the council meeting, "that our fleet has more advanced shielding than the ecemene."

"The ecumene is powerful, yes, but not as entrenched in combat as we are, Commander," Nep'Thalia replied from her place at his shoulder, "Most of the rates stay separate from the dealings of the Warrior-Servants, save for the Lifeworkers. Unless a specific request comes in, the Builders don't even converse with them."

"Well, we've seen how well _that's_ worked out. It's a proven concept." The Spartan sighed. "More wasted lives..."

The two of them stepped onto the transport that would carry them to the _Storm_. [How's it going over there?]

There was a heartbeat of a delay. 'Still quiet, Commander, but we're keeping a sharp eye,' L'Toress answered. She was back at Earth, and had temporary command of the fleet's other ships.

[No disturbances at all?]

'Not a one.'

[You'd think that when their ships dropped out of contact, _someone_ would wonder what happened.]

'Maybe they already know.'

'Goddessdammit, Ursoen…'

'What?'

'You know how he gets!'

[Godsdamnit, _scan everything_. I have not survived this long by not being paranoid.]

'Eh, we haven't done a check in a while. Hop to it.' There was a collective groan. 'Suck it up, you pansies, he would have remembered eventually!'

[Especially when the electronic age rolls around – all those viruses and malware… No surfing the Internet without a firewall. New rule.]

'_That_ we can do.'

* * *

"I hate politics."

"The feeling is mutual, Commander. Politics hates an uncouth soldier." Elenasto sorted the authorizations he needed to sign to give the Builders and a team of Adonte temporary access to the _Storm's_ shields. She passed the wafer thin pads to him and waited for him to skim them. He knew what they said, of course, but they had to check.

"I am not uncouth," the Chief grunted, "not anymore. And we Spartans aren't exactly known for our finesse in the political sphere. Or the social one, for that matter. We don't get out much." He scrawled his untidy "John-117" on the dotted line at the end of the first file and moved on to the second.

"You do fine with us."

"You're my people. I don't do well with people who aren't my people."

"That makes you sound like pets."

John scowled. "We are, kind of. Like the police canine units. We pursue the targets we are given because we have skills and abilities our handlers don't." His muscles flexed unnaturally under his armor, a prelude to their fairly new, weird form of shapeshifting.

"But… you aren't animals. You had rights, didn't you?" None of the Infected have ever actively probed into their own members' lives unless it was urgent, though John knew everything by default. Any information that was public knowledge was volunteered. They knew that their commander was a legendary form of super soldier in his own world, but not exactly what that entailed.

"That depends on your definition of rights. We were indoctrinated as children, taking away our freedoms of thought, conscience, and speech – and we were taken from our homes in the first place, a form of enslavement, nor were we free to travel where we liked. We could bear arms so long as it was in defense of the UNSC, and none of us were trained to care about religion." He tapped a finger against his desk. Then his lips quirked up a tad. "Except where the Covenant was concerned.

"And we're going to have to let it happen here, too."

Elenasto's – and everyone else's – hackles rose. "Do you regret it?" she asked, "The life you lived?"

"No. And I wouldn't give it up for anything. I only wish we have been treated with respect, rather than viewed as freaks." He frowned. "And now I sound like a whiney little bitch."

"At this point I think you've more than earned a little whining, Commander."


	16. Fifteen: The Prince of Egypt

Fifteen: The Prince of Egypt

* * *

The pyramids were magnificent in the sun. Blinding, even, the light reflecting like a beacon off the polished limestone casing. John had to squint to look at them, and even then his eyes watered at the brightness. Finally, he had to look away. [Now I see why the Flood breeds in primarily dark places.]

'You've never had this problem before.'

[I was always in my armor with its polarized visor before.] He hunched in on himself, trying not to look at the sand either. It was just as bad about reflecting the light. [It's especially painful because one of the augmentations was designed to enhance my vision and night sight.] He squeezed his eyes shut and enhanced his hearing. [Aaah…]

'Oh, Commander.' Nep'Thalia sounded affectionately exasperated. 'Who would have guessed you're such a child inside?'

[I didn't have much of a childhood. Trying to get it all in right now.]

'Don't do that!' Kenera protested, and Venera added, 'That park hasn't even been invented yet! You could shed some muscle, make yourself into a ten-year-old, go run around and have some fun…'

["That park?"]

'You know, the park! The one with the rodent mascot?'

[You mean Disney?]

'Yes! And this time it won't be a god awful derelict when you go!'

John had been to a Disney theme park before, but that was using the terms "been to" and "Disney theme park" very, very loosely. Blue Team had engaged the Covenant in a hit-and-run fight in one of the parks on an Outer Colony world, but for obvious reasons, it wasn't exactly "the happiest place on Earth" at the time.

[Hm. We'll see.] Something was tossed on top of him, making him blink. It appeared to be a blanket of black cloth, but despite its color, it was not absorbing the intense heat of the Egyptian sun. The Spartan pulled it off and held it up.

It was a tightly woven cloak in his size – undoubtedly custom made, considering the fact that he towered over most humans (and aliens). He tugged it on without hesitation. The black cloth absorbed much of the light that was bothering his eyes. He sighed.

'You're welcome.'Sérë's R&D team had been working on nanotube-weave clothing for everyone who was planetside, since they couldn't very well wander around in their armor without drawing a lot of attention. It would provide the protection their armor normally did without compromising their cover. 'You'll have to tell us how it does.'

[Don't expect Shakespearean prose.]

'A simple "it works" or "it doesn't" will suffice, Commander. Your reports are infamous for their conciseness. This one is my favorite: after a seven-week battle against an enemy Gravemind, all you had to say about it was "it's dead."'

[Doesn't make it any less true.] John tramped across the sand, the Builder following close behind. [Captain's log, star date 10.01.95621 Post-Cataclysm. We are stranded on Earth with no hope of alleviating boredom. Lifeworkers and Builders are having a field day archiving human history. Note: pyramids are impressive, but don't visit at high noon.]

'Slipspace rupture detected.'

[Is this going to be anything like the last rupture we detected?]

'Oh by the Tower I hope not.'

'It's a registered signature. Unless, of course, the Adonte world has been captured and we haven't heard about it.'

John let out yet another sigh. He piggybacked the _Blade_'s external cameras to watch the ship slide back into realspace. Initial scans were promising, and a deeper scan showed that the population on board was indeed the logical little aliens. They had come, along with a handful of Builders and a number of Huragok, to stock up the fleet's supplies in exchange for their improved weapons and shielding.

'The Falls are now on lockdown.'

[Good.] The Spartan lifted a hand to shade his eyes. There was the faintest glimmer of silver in the blue sky of Earth. Next to him, Sere did the same, both of them watching as the _Storm_ decloaked, appearing as another speck of metal reflecting the brightness of the sun.

The muscles around his spine contracted suddenly, making him gasp as his back arched. He slumped to the sand, hands grabbing at his back. His spinal column was flexing changing shape. It pulled mass from elsewhere in his body, layering it over the bundled nerves. Something gouged his hand, before the strain of attempting to fight the involuntary change forced him into unconsciousness.

* * *

John came to in the med bay of the _FireRain_, lying on his stomach. He was exhausted, but his body felt like it had slept enough. He clenched a fist in the sheets.

"Don't get up yet." Areana moved around the bed so he could see her. "We're still running scans."

"What happened?" he groaned.

"Near as we can tell – this." She planted an image in his mind. It was his spine alright, but parts of his vertebrae called the "spinous processes" had changed, as had the flesh around them. Instead of being a simple lump of bone, a joint had formed on each of them, and the bone itself had lengthened and sharpened. The muscles had wrapped around the spurs of bone in such a way that they could be flexed in all directions, even side to side.

The spines weren't long – the longest was about six and a half centimeters – but their appearance was going to force a creative redesign of his back armor to accommodate them, to say nothing of his clothes. They weren't quite as sharp as monomolecular blades, but they would become a problem in the future.

John closed his eyes and relaxed again, delving into a part of the Infected's collective mind that no one often entered. He gave his caged instinctive self a poke, and it tried to take off his hand. The Spartan promptly responded by putting it in a mental headlock and demanding an explanation.

**body is seat-of-awareness but no natural defenses claws fangs poison so modified to have**

He narrowed his eyes. 'I can defend myself.'

**know but bad things happen**

It had a point. That didn't mean he had to like it. 'I appreciate that you're trying to help, but it really isn't necessary. So quit.'

It started sulking, so he left it alone. But what it had done wasn't just a physical shift, like his centuries-earlier emergency. It was also at a genetic level, and coded in such a way that it would be very difficult to remove, even at their level of technology. And to top it all off, this was just the first of what could become many unplanned modifications to his base shape.

"Leave it."

"Commander?"

"Leave it. If it becomes a problem, we'll get rid of it. Fore now, leave it. And help me make something to keep them lying flat."

* * *

"It looks like an enormous Band-Aid."

"Well, what did you expect? A bondage harness?"

"… I'm not going to dignify that with a response." John flexed the spines, then flattened them against his back, merging the flesh together. He had done so before as a temporary fix, but he had been startled by an outsider while planetside, and they had torn free.

"This has given us a good opportunity to test skin-friendly adhesives," said Elenasto, helping Areana peel the backing off the peach-colored strip, "We really haven't had much cause to before."

"Buy stock in Band-Aid," he said, kneeling so the elderly Lifeworker could press one end at the top of his spine, "Plant someone on their science team. We'll make a fortune." He kept his head tilted downward as Areana smoothed the strip down along his spine. When she was done, he flexed the spines, but they only moved the tiniest bit no matter how hard he pushed. "Excellent work."

"We do try." The strip underwent a series of chemical changes to match his skin tone. Aside from the odd warping from the spines, he looked perfectly normal. The Chief twisted and turned to test it. Other than a few tiny wrinkles, it appeared to be real flesh for all intents and purposes.

'Incoming transmission from the Iso-Didact.'

[Isn't he supposed to be extra-galactic right now?]

'He is.'

[…Put him through.]

"_Spartan."_

"Didact. What can I do for you?"

"_Tell me, how much of a load can your reactors handle?"_

The Commander blinked, then shot a pointed mental glance at the team of Engineers and Builders who maintained the fleet. One of the techs stepped forward to elaborate on the specs of the ships.

"_Is there any way you can boost that?"_

"Only through a hard dock. Why?"

"_We've found some survivors on an infected world. We're not equipped to deal with them, and obviously they cannot stay in a combat zone."_

"The _MoonBlade_ can stay here, in orbit above Erde-Tyrene. The rest of the fleet can jump to the galactic rom and perform a hard dock there. It'll help conserve power. Can you hold that long?"

"_Easily. Contact us when you're in position."_

The crew of the fleet was already shuffling, most of the Builders and Engineers moving onto the departing ships with the tech teams and highest-level defensive squads. After a brief consultation and debate, the Spartan moved, too. He was reluctant to leave Earth, but it would be a good idea to speak face-to-face with their leader.

* * *

The ships reverted to realspace on the edge of the galaxy closest to the Didact a day after the initial transmission. A temporary halt on Slipspace travel galaxy-wide had been called to accommodate the jump for the massive ships. A coupled physical analysis and language lexicon awaited them, along with a short cultural analysis.

These alien survivors were apparently the inspiration for the old Norse myths about giants – the smallest subspecies was between seven and eight feet tall. The tallest was between eighteen and twenty feet. They all had evolved to suit their own environments – forest, jungle, plains, mountains, tundra…

Their leader was teleported to the fleet first; a tundra giant by the name of Luka. John held out a hand; the language lexicon transmitted to the fleet was far from being complete enough to communicate. After a breath of hesitation, Luka placed hir hand in his to establish a relatively stable mind-to-mind connection.

'I am Luka Lurfey, "Hell-Deep Chasm," and I speak for my people.'

[I am John, "God's Grace," and I speak for mine.]

Hir lips quirked into something like a smile. 'The grace of a god indeed. Thank you for giving us sanctuary. When That Thing arrived on our world, we feared our peoples were at an end.'

[We're glad to help. Is there anything we need to know about your peoples? Foods you cannot eat, and the like?]

Ze gave the information without a fight or questioning intent. Certain forms of leafy greens were poisonous to the tundra giants due to their unique evolution. The plains giants were almost entirely intolerant to cold, but they could endure heat up to 100 degrees Centigrade. The rainforest giants had to keep their skin at least lightly moist, or else it would crack and bleed like chapped human lips. Their collective average lifespan was about two to three hundred Earth years.

While the two "conversed," the other giants were teleported in one by one, slowly but surely. Some reacted negatively to the long transit and were carefully treated. None died, though one was hospitalized due to a transit error that failed to assemble part of an organ.

[You chose to fight the Flood, rather than submit.]

'What race willingly goes to its own demise?'

[Oh, you'd be surprised.]

* * *

The Spartan left Nep'Thalia to oversee the surveying of planets for the giants' new home, in favor of returning to Earth. It was still quiet in-system. The research team from the Capital had gone, and no one had arrived in the interim.

The Egyptians were celebrating the coronation of a new pharaoh, Userkaf of the Fifth Dynasty. John only remembered him because some 23rd century archeology had shown that he had fought a clever naval battle while attempting to restore Egypt's trade routes with the rest of the Mediterranean.

'Commander!'

[Yes, Kenera?]

'Ice cream!'

A bowl was shoved into his hands, piled high with the frozen treat. It smelled cold and sweet and rich, so he took a bite of it. It was the real deal, made with natural dairy and sugar, not that _stuff_ that he'd eaten in MRE's. The Lituni seemed to like it especially well, their inner cat coming out to enjoy the dairy, even though it wasn't healthy for them. Most of them were at least partially lactose intolerant, like real cats.

John rolled his eyes and signaled the Lifeworker teams to get them some enzyme injections while the rest of the fleet enjoyed their ice cream party.

* * *

A/N: Hi, everyone (aka whoever still reads this, if anyone)! Sorry it's been so long since my last update. Real life has been kicking my ass, and I've started writing an original story. It has about 8.2k words in it right now, but I'm shooting for 50k, so updates will probably be slow for a while. But this story is not dead, I promise you that! Until next time!


	17. Sixteen: Three Hundred

A/N: This chapter brought to you by the 70 Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries Number 18: If the officers are leading from in front, watch for an attack from the rear.

* * *

Sixteen: Three Hundred

* * *

'Barbarians.'

[Hey.]

'No offense.'

[Hn.]

Once the Spartans had gone down the mountain, Kenera darted quickly over the rocks to scoop up the abandoned child. It sneezed and hid from the harsh sun in her shadow, though it quickly began to cry once it realized she wasn't its mother. Kenera worked quickly to quiet the baby as she bounded back to the warp pad. A temporary network had been set up an hidden planet-wide, and the teleporters themselves were almost identical to what the _Spirit of Fire_ encountered on Shield 0459.

The network brought her aboard the _FireRain_, where a Lifeworker-led team was caring for the other children abandoned by the people of Sparta. 'This makes sixty-three,' she said, checking the gender just to be sure before handing the boy off to a Lituni. Many of the children found the aliens' purring soothing and quieted quickly.

[Only twelve more to go, and we can start the S-0 program.]

'Commander, that was _terrible_.'

[I'd like to see you do better!]

'At least he's not telling "dead baby" jokes.'

[I might not have a conventional upbringing, but I'm not _that_ insensitive. There are places even I won't go.]

'At least he was trying. We'll make a decent, functional person out of him yet!'

[You keep saying that, and yet it seems that the only society in which I am fully functional is our own.]

'You just need experience. Quick, everyone force him into the shape of a child so we can dump him on the _agoge_!'

[That's no different from boot camp on Reach! Just with swords rather than guns.]

'Because everything's better with sharp objects.'

[Yes. Yes, it is.] The Commander ducked a swing from one of the Special Operations Infected, and then swept the other's feet out from under him. The other warrior turned his drop into a handspring to get some distance, but John followed closely, relishing the burn of sparring with a real, live person rather than swiping at Prometheans.

'Is that him?'

[Who him?]

'King Leonidas.'

The sparring match was temporarily halted as all the Infected peered down at Earth via the shipboard cameras. Etra latched onto a particular thread and brought up a live feed of the _agoge_, showing a particular boy who was clearly already a leader.

[Hm. Maybe.]

'…Maybe?'

[I don't know what he looks like. There was a statue of him made, but it's considered an artist's rendidtion.]

'…shit.'

[Yep. We'll know soon enough, though. Look.]

The view swung around to the Persian Empire, which was distinctly readying itself for a war many years off, putting the timeline at about 530 BC. John ducked a punch to the face, one intended to get his attention, and resumed fighting.

* * *

Since no one in Sparta would look twice at a tall, strong male, Gramlek disguised himself as a commoner in the Spartan state, a "mage"-blacksmith, come to the _agoge_ to sell some swords to the handlers for new graduates. They had been painstakingly made on the fell, from the near-indestructible Forerunner diamond-steel – a risk, giving it to humanity at this point in time, but one they were prepared to take. There were tracking dots in the handles of the blades that could be tracked from orbit, so they could find them and pull them out at any time.

It was indeed Leonidas that they had seen from orbit, still young yet, but already showing promise. When his father met up with the Forerunner, the boy straight up asked, "Are you a god?"

The weapons master considered, conferring with his fellows. "My people have been called 'gods,'" he answered finally, "by races with greater knowledge and skill than yours, but no. We are not gods. Merely men, with power beyond the norm."

"Can you fly between the stars, like the legends?"

"We have a means of doing so, yes."

"Then… if there are other… races… out there, as you say, why come here?" the future king asked, frowning, "Surely if you have such power, you must have somewhere better to be?"

"We are the Watchers," Gramlek replied, "It is our duty to guard those who cannot guard themselves. There are things other than us out in the darkness, not all of them as kind as us, and strong though your people are, you are no match for them."

As one, the Infected sensed a disturbance in space, right before a small fleet transitioned back into realspace. The past several centuries had not been especially kind, resulting in a lot of unrest and a number of rebellions. Pirates, smugglers, and traffickers of all kinds had sprung up left and right, even in the ecumene, and though many stayed away from Erde-Tyrene purely on principle of being the _Fleet of Shadows_ "home base," some were apparently stupid enough to take the risk of tangling with the Flood.

"And one such 'thing' has just arrived." Gramlek inclined his head to the prince. "I must go. My people need me."

"Will you return?" Leonidas asked, but his tone made it more of a demand.

"Perhaps one of us will."

* * *

The raiders weren't that much of a challenge, but they were part of a much larger network beginning to form throughout the galaxy. The Commander recognized that a good black market was a necessary evil, but this one was beginning to get into sentient being trafficking and drug smuggling. The Infected decided to board them rather than shoot them out of the sky, and found their holds filled with alien slaves and exotic narcotics, looking for new markets.

There were uncounted numbers of furious hisses, Flood forms curling and twisting in wrath at the abuse of fellow sentient beings – especially since the _FoS_ was built to protect against such cruelty. Worse yet, some of the Galactic Councilors were involved in it, receiving funding in exchange for looking the other way.

The Infected were forced to leave Erde-Tyrene entirely in order to run them down. They presented their findings to a secretly-formed committee and waited until the corrupted officials involved were ousted before returning to Earth. By that time, twenty years had passed. The legendary Spartan was no longer a boy, but a man grown, soon to become king.

'Can we fight with him, Commander?'

[We can't _all_ fight the Persians at Thermopylae. We'd obliterate them. The Grecian armies have to lose.]

'But Commandeeeeeer…!'

[No.]

'Awww…'

But there _was_ some good news: Leonidas hadn't said a word about meeting Gramlek, so the fleet was still a secret (at least on Earth. In the Galactic Federation, they were the most well-known "secret" in existence). The Infected reinserted their "sleeper agents" all over the planet, and resumed their watch.

Leonidas spotted their Spartan agent within hours of him arriving at the capital.

'_Damn_, he is good.'

But the king didn't call Zhalek out – or any other aliens who drifted through in disguise, trying to catch a glimpse of the father of a legend. He just gave them weird looks – ones that said, "Who the fuck are all these weirdoes and what do they want?" and "Threaten my people and I will kick your asses to the galactic center and back." – and went on with ruling Sparta.

[I like him. Unfortunately, we can't infect him.]

'Awwww…'

[Yes, mourn lost opportunites-]

_my mournstache_

[-what was that?]

'Haven't the foggiest. What's a mournstache?'

[Haven't the foggiest.]

* * *

"You're their leader."

It wasn't even a question, really. At this point, John was willing to write it off as "impeccable intuition and observation" and leave it at that. "And you're the king of Sparta."

"You're here to help?"

"Would I be here if I wasn't?" he answered, "Just me, though." There had been a miniature war fought over who would fight in the Battle of Thermopylae. In the end, no one could agree and there was no clear victor, so it was decided that the Chief – and only the Chief – would go, and become a real Spartan. [Real,] he'd snorted, [Does that make me imaginary?]

"Why?"

"Where I am from, your war against the Persian Empire is already known. My superiors named my fellow soldiers and I 'Spartans' in honor of you and your dedication and valor," he said, using carefully prepared words, "Now, through the maneuvering of gods and men and magic, I find myself with an opportunity to witness that for myself, an opportunity I am unwilling to pass up."

Leonidas looked him over. Despite the time between the Forerunner-Flood War and the Greco-Persian War, the Commander had refused to let his body go even the slightest. Fortunately, as a result of his augmentations and his Flood-modified biology, it was easy to maintain his physique. He was a SPARTAN, and looked it, too. And though the king might wish otherwise, John had learned to read people in that interim, and knew that despite himself, the king was flattered in some small way that such a powerful warrior had been named for his people and come to see them for himself.

'Flattery will get you everywhere,' John thought to himself when the king nodded at last.

"You knew I would come here," said Leonidas as John joined him and his men on their path to the Temple of Apollo, where the Pythia, the Oracle of Delphi, waited.

"I suspected," the S-II corrected, "Would you not take advantage of all resources available? – Although… I am unsure how… the God's Breath will affect me." When both Leonidas and his guards shot glances at him, he elaborated, "My family has a history of prophecy-" Not technically a lie. "-I, too, might receive a vision, were I to inhale the vapors."

"A double prophecy would be most fortuitous," said one of the king's guards. The supersoldier hmmed in agreement.

The moment he stepped into the Oracle Chamber with the king, John's vision began to swim. He blinked rapidly, panting and dropping his head, but breathing wasn't helping. There was definitely _something_ in the air, some chemical cocktail that he was reacting to, his instincts thrashing around inside its cage before curling up in a tight knot and refusing to move. It didn't like it either, whatever it was.

Nep'Thalia was already calling for one of the science team to get planetside and take a sample of the gases, but John could only just make out her words. He looked up at the Pythia, eyes watering and vision blurred.

"_A star shines upon the hour of this meeting, Warrior."_

Her voice was clear in the chaos of his mind. She must have already given her words to Leonidas while he was trying to acclimate himself to the chemicals in the air.

And she was speaking _Forerunner._

"_You have been patient for many years."_

"_There are many more yet to go,"_ he replied.

She smiled. _"Yet you will see your Intellect again sooner than you think, even if you cannot speak to her. You will survive this, you and all your Poisoned. Do brave things and endure."_

He nodded in acceptance. _"What of the Battle of the Hot Gates?"_

"_See for yourself, Breathe deep, and don't fight."_

The Spartan-II did as she said, closing his eyes. When the light coming through his lids changed unexpectedly, he opened them again – and found himself on a ridge overlooking the narrow pass between said ridge and the Gulf of Malia. The battlefield was strangely ghostlike, made of mist and partially translucent. He could see the inner chamber of the temple beyond it if he focused on it, but he was far more interested in the vision.

The Greek camp was directly below him, holding the narrowest part of the pass. The rest of the army had already retreated, but the Spartans – the legendary three hundred – were still there, along with about eleven hundred other Greeks and the support staff. He saw himself amongst the warriors, standing at the Phocian wall and looking toward the Persian camp. They had set up out near the edge of the Gulf of Malia, where the water curved away from the ridge, opening up the land. A messenger from Xerxes had approached the camp to ask for their surrender, saying that their spears were a forest that could not be cut down, their arrows clouds that would blot out the sun. A hoplite named Diomelces delivered the famous reply, his voice echoing strangely in John's ears: "So much the better! We shall fight our battle in the shade!"

Then the induced vision blurred, and became a true battlefield. The Persians were charging the Greek line with infantry and some mounted soldiers. The Greeks vaulted the wall to meet them. Again, he saw himself amongst the melee, wielding spear and sword of Forerunner diamond-steel, initially next to Leonidas and his guard before they were separated in the crush of bodies.

The battlefield changed again, this time showing the aftermath. There were more Persian bodies that Greek on the bloody, churned up earth, but it didn't matter: all the Greeks who had stayed behind had been slain to the last man. The Spartan himself was slumped against the wall, stuck full of arrows like a pincushion. The king was next to him, unmoving and staring up at the sky, blood still slowly seeping out of his body.

The Persians were picking through the bodies, among them a few familiar faces: the twins, Gramlek, Zhalek. They came right over to the two men, and Gramlek shut the king's eyes while Zhalek collected the hybrid's weapons and the twins prepped him to be moved.

And then a single, brief flash – a mausoleum in the _Fleet of Shadows_, some urns of ashes and others disassembled skeletons, all packed in their own cubicles and sealed behind plaques bearing names and dates and important events or actions. John very clearly saw Leonidas' name on one of the plaques, inscribed in several different languages, along with his t-itle, "King of Sparta (489 – 480 BC)" and "First Greco-Persian War, Battle of Thermopylae (September 8 – 10, 480 BC)."

The Commander came out of the vision suddenly, the mist dispersing between one blink and the next. He was shocked to find that he had only been "under" for less than a minute – it had felt like a small eternity in the drug-induced haze.

"_Do brave things and endure,"_ the Pythia repeated, _"Fare the well, Warrior, Guardian of the Earth. We will not meet again."_ Then she subsided.

* * *

It was hard, living with so many people in a tight space, especially with his instincts up in arms over the incident at the Temple of Apollo. It was gnawing at the bars of its cage, trying to get out and spread its infection amongst the Greek soldiers. In the privacy of his own mind, John could understand why it – and all the other Graveminds – wanted soldiers. They were combat-trained and physically fit more often than not, as well as pre-conditioned to obey orders. Even if it took a bit more effort to infect them because of the aforementioned characteristics, they were easier to suppress and handle than ordinary civilians, and tended to last a lot longer.

The hybrid clambered up to sit on top of the wall, breathing clear air without the stink of sweaty men and unwashed bodies. It was too much _life_ for him to bear.

"The Pythia said you bear a great burden, you and your followers. That there are other worlds than these you are shielding."

Leonidas scaled the wall to sit next to him, carrying a jug of wine. The Infected had long since learned that very little affected them for any length of time – vision-inducing hallucinogenics aside - but–he accepted to be polite.

"She spoke truly," he answered, "We are something of a magical vanguard. There is an enemy we must face, whose powers we have taken for our own, but space is vast and empty and hard to search. It is easier to wait for them to realized that there is something wrong and waste resources coming to us."

"Never were truer words spoken," said the king, "Let them come to you and spend their food, water, and gold."

The S-II took the jug back and swallowed another mouthful of wine. "I half-hope they never come," he said, handing the jug back, "that someone else finds a way to deal with them, though I know it's selfish of me."

"Human nature," Leonidas replied, toasting him with the jug, "We all want someone else to take care of our problems."

"Human?" John snorted bitterly. "I haven't felt _human_ for eons. My flesh is filled with sickness, my blood poison. None who ever encounter me are ever quite the same, _if_ they survive."

"Heracles used the poisonous blood of the Hydra to slay his enemies," the king responded, "Have you not done the same?"

Before John could reply that _yes, he had, but that didn't make him a hero_, he sensed something small approaching, _fast_, and snapped out a hand, not even batting an eyelid when an arrow meant for the Spartan king pierced his palm. "Doesn't seem very poisonous," the king said dryly, a splatter of blood trickling down his face as the supersoldier pulled the arrow out and fired it back out into the night, a cry of pain and surge of information letting him know that he had hit his mark.

"Just don't get any of it in your mouth."

* * *

The battlefield was the kind of tight chaos that none of the Infected had seen since the Forerunner-Flood War. They had observed wars in the past, and even participated, but none of it had been quite the same, quite like this – the crush of bodies, the tunnel vision making it hard to tell if the person at your shoulder was friend or foe. His instincts gloried in it, relishing the suffering of the dying, though the S-II kept it firmly caged.

He found Leonidas in the melee, launching his spear like a javelin to impale two Persians charging the king from behind. He drew his short sword to defend himself as he waded through the fighting to the man's side. The Greeks were being steadily pushed back against the Phocian wall, their numbers already cut down by more than half. The bodies of friend and foe alike were piling up, so as he fought, John found himself kicking corpses into short walls behind which he could duck to catch his breath before charging back out.

The battle still raged for hours, with occasional breaks wherein both sides made a temporary mutual retreat to recover from the strain and assess the damage. But at last, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon on the third day, only the king and the supersoldier were left alive. Xerxes ordered a temporary retreat, his herald calling for them to "make peace with their gods before they met their end before the glory of the Persian Empire."

"Tell me," said the Spartan king, using a strip of cloth from another Spartan's cape to bind a wound on his forearm, "how did your superiors know about this battle, this war? Do they have an Oracle of their own?"

John turned his head just a bit, consulting with his Infected.

'It couldn't hurt.'

'Who could he _possibly_ tell?'

'He deserves to know, if not for his own sake, then for his men. He really seems to care about them.'

"No," said the supersoldier, "no Oracle. Just history. I was born two thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-one years in the future. Exactly, in fact. Today is my birthday. And this battle – the Battle of Thermopylae – is known as one of history's most famous last stands." He paused, then continued, "The Egyptians, a people from the south across the sea, believe that so long as someone is remembered, their name spoken, the person will never die. And believe me, Leonidas, you and your men are going to live forever."


	18. Seventeen: Centurion

A/N: This chapter has been sitting on my flash drive for a number of months now because I really cannot figure out how to get it the way I want it, so I'm calling it done and moving on.

* * *

Seventeen: Centurion

* * *

'You know what? I'm not even surprised Caesar gets shanked.'

John and Nep'Thaliaboth looked up from their paperwork, raising a collective eyebrow and exchanging looks. The Spartan blinked at his second in command, who was biting her lips to hide a small smile. [Care to explain how you came to that conclusion, Ferial?]

'This useless paperclip's been kidnapped by pirates, right? He just told his kidnappers that he thought six hundred kilos of silver wasn't a high enough randsom! He wants them to raise it to fifteen hundred!'

The Spartan buried his face in his hands. [Did you just call Julius Caesar a useless paperclip?]

'_YES!_'

[Hello, Caesar, this is John. One of my subordinates just insulted you in a manner which doesn't make sense now but is still highly offensive. Would you like to crucify her now or later?]

Ferial let fly a flurry of expletives that were highly inapprorpiate for small children. [Ferial,] John said, [There's a reason we switched to observation only at the dawn of the Roman Empire.]

'Yeah, because Caesar's a bag of dicks.'

He snorted into his hands. [No, its because we can't take the same risks as we did with the Grecian states. A lot more is known about the Roman Empire than the Greek, and Leonidas was hardly one to take advantage of our presence. Caesar is not.]

'So, in other words, a bag of dicks.'

[Ferial…]

'It's the truth, and you know it!'

[Okay, yes, Caesar has an ego. And according to legend, he's going to have all of those pirates killed and take back all that silver.]

'…Oh.'

[Yes. _Oh._] John put his hands down and signed off on some Lifeworkers' request to collect some gene samples from the Roman people. They wanted to see if humans were genetically predisposed to certain positions in human society, as well as track the genetic evolution of the human race.

'…he's still an asshole.'

[That doesn't make him _not_ Julius Motherfucking Caesar.]

'Ugh.'

[Big men, big egos.] John threw out a request for a permanent game server once he saw the cost, much to the disappointment of his crew. [No different from the Galactic Council.]

'You don't have a big ego, sir.'

[Spartans were trained out of it.]

'Ah. Well, this still proves that evolution is a fraud and nothing ever changes.'

'Amen.'

The Commander ignored the subsequent discussion in favor of wading through still more paperwork. Another request for research, this one into neural physics in hopes of replicating the Domain, the massive Precursor data archive that had been destroyed with the firing of the Halo Array. [Put in a request for a grant with the Council,] he said, signing his name, [There's no way in hell we're going to be able to do it all ourselves. And put out a broadcast, see if anyone else wants to participate. How's your run going, Sere?]

'Rather well.' The Builder was off trading with other worlds, and delivering shipments that they had picked up on the way. 'It's very quiet right now- things seem to have settled down from all the rebellions that were going on. But it looks like the hard-liners in the ecumene are planning to stir things up again. They're trying to put a tax on trade and deliveries through their space, _and_ ban interspecies marriage.'

[Their territory is right at the heart of all allied systems – that's kind of like if someone decided to put a tax on wireless Internet access.]

'I WILL KILL SOMEONE.'

John stared wide-eyed at the Captain-Commander seated across from him. Her poker face was impeccable. A number of his other Infected were having similar reactions and staging revolts at the mere _thought_ of a wi-fi tax, but her reaction was the most unexpected and out of character. She stared back impassively.

[Explanation please?]

'I enjoy reading some of the historical and scientific journal publications that they release online, and most all written material now is published via our version of the Internet.'

John waited. Nep'Thalia's cheeks turned pinkish.

'And I enjoy reading some fanfiction,' she said in a small voice.

The Spartan pretended he knew what that word meant and wouldn't need to ask someone later. Going by the way the twins were cheering and Dacien was giving her "I trusted you" looks, he was probably better off not knowing.

'The absolute _harten_'s been rescued,' Ferial reported, interrupting anything John might have said on the fanfiction front.

[Remind me what that is again?]

'_Harten_ are the worms in halgengei.'

[Okay, you can _definitely_ not call him that. At least not to his face.]

* * *

The Chief was almost falling asleep at his post. He had wrapped up all of his paperwork and trade negotiations in time to watch Caesar "get shanked," as Ferial put it. Now he was a Roman soldier in Jerusalem, waiting for the events of the Christian gospels to begin – or not begin, whatever the case was. The Infected had their various belief systems – the Forerunners and the Tower, the Gultanr and their belief that the stars were the fiery souls of their ancestors, and so on – but he had never really subscribed to any particular religious doctrine. None of the Spartans had; it had never been a part of their training, and so it had never concerned them.

But, to many, the Christian Bible was an important milestone in history, and so here they were to document it. That didn't mean they enjoyed all the waiting. For a group of people whose entire objective was to wait, they were very impatient.

John sighed, shifted from one foot to the other, trying to wake himself up. He wasn't normally this unprofessional, but even Spartans had their limits. He had been called upon to mediate a dispute because he was notorious for cutting through crap, but it had taken- literally – five times as long as it was supposed to. He was so sick of bureaucracy that he wanted to make the entire Ecumene Council eat a gun or make _himself_ disappear into the emptiness of space. The moment he expressed the thought, over half the Infected volunteered to go with him.

[See, now they're the real reason why the Graveminds wanted to destroy Forerunner society,] the Spartan grumbled, [them and all the other dicks.]

'Agreed.'

John shifted back to his other foot and let his eyes drift closed, feeling out his environment. The ebb and flow of ordinary humans had become soothing to him after so long away from his own species – he was able to sense them better than any other. Then his eyes shot open again, all sleepiness vanishing with the suddenness of a lightning strike.

There was something nearby, an alien being similar to humanity and yet unlike anything they had ever detected. It was strange and vast and beyond comprehension, and so as one they retreated, slammed up the strongest mental shields they were capable of making, and everyone able to do so assumed the fetal position in a corner.

_stare into the abyss long enough and it stares back_

Even the Commander's instinctive split personality was freaking out and trying to transform their body into some kind of defensive fortress. He snarled at it that if it was who he thought it was, even a doomsday bunker wouldn't save them. It settled at that, but still mentally turned itself into a ball of barbed spikes.

It was getting closer. Despite knowing that it wouldn't do them a damned spit of good, John shifted his grip on his spear, hoping that if he was attacked it would buy him enough time to body-hop-

A boy.

A small Jewish boy, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, human and yet not, mortal and yet not.A child, but already so much more.

"_Commander,"_ he said, in perfect Forerunner Digon, "_Infected."_

"_Son of God,"_ they answered.

"_Thank you for serving,"_ he said, and then entered the temple as if what had happened was not of world-shattering importance. They blinked.

'Are we dead?' Kenera asked.

[I… I don't think so.]

'Why didn't we get smooshed like a bug?' her twin demanded.

[I don't know – I don't claim to fathom the mind of God. Let's get out of here. I hear the Soraceon System is lovely this time of year.]

* * *

"You met Jesus Christ, and you _ran away._"

"Yes. It was a perfectly logical reaction at the time. – Stop looking at us like that."

"Do you know how many religious institutions would kill for an opportunity like that?"

"All of them, I'd imagine."

"Yes, exactly."


End file.
